


Sanctuary for All

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Daryl is not a happy bunny but is delish and woobie, Episode Related, Explicit Language, Gen, Group dynamics, Hostage Situation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Kink Meme, Major Character Injury, Mind Games, Misogyny, Non-Consensual Violence, Original Character Death(s), PTSD, Restraints, Whump, Zombies, allusions to rape, allusions to torture, bamf!daryl, inappropriate discussion of a minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 65,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything hurt. Muscles, sinews, flesh, bone, it didn't matter. He felt like he'd been compressed into a single, all encompassing bruise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Warnings: This is my fill response to prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: "Daryl/Group: Abduction/Whump: While hunting Daryl gets ambushed and taken hostage. He still displays his BAMF skills, but ultimately is outnumbered and overpowered." *Rated for adult language, adult situations, kidnapping, violence, allusions to rape, misogyny, and some serious whump.
> 
> Authors Note #1: *This story is set in season two while they are still on the farm: between Sophia's death and the season finale. This is a titch AU as the author is taking some creative license with the time frame, pretending that there was more time between Sophia's death and the last few episodes.

He woke up with the taste of darkness on his tongue. …No, wait. That wasn't right. Something was off, different. It was almost as if someone had gone and changed all the rules. Fiddling around with all the constants, things like gravity and measuring distance. Or how one remembered how to understand the meaningless sounds and drawling syllables that were echoing through his mind with all the subtly of a nine-iron to the skull.

His head hurt, that much he knew for sure. He felt split and wrong, like someone had gone and cleaved him in two when he wasn't looking. He couldn't remember why he was so-

A cacophonous pulse of sound ebbed and flowed inside his head, the noise spluttering but constant as a strange series of vibrations coursed through his aching skin. Everything hurt. Muscles, sinews, flesh, bone, it didn't matter. He felt like he'd been compressed into a single, all encompassing bruise.

Fuck.

He shook his head, teeth grating together as he tried to make sense of a thousand different sensations at once. Trying and failing to recognize the hard surface rattling around underneath him as the world suddenly swerved. Tipping on it's axis as his body slammed against something curved and sharp, driving the air from his lungs like a knee to the gut as the unmistakable tang of bile rose in the back of his throat.

Shit, he was gonna, he was gonna-…

He nearly choked on his own tongue trying to swallow it back down. Head rattling around like one of those stupid bobble head dolls as the world dipped and weaved. Doing his best to ignore the hot, awkward throb that was thudding between his temples as he tried in vain to remember how moving his hands actually worked.

He must have hit his head, fallen or something. Either way he'd certainly done a number on himself that much was for sure. He felt like triple hammered shit and probably looked ten times worse if the tell-a-tale stickiness dribbling down from his temples were any indication. He groaned, the joints in his neck cracking as he tested his range of movement gingerly. Sonofabitch...

But his confusion and uncertainty only mounted the longer the moment stretched. Because every time the world seemed to go arse over tit, rocking him from one side of the hard metal siding to the other, he was nearly blinded by a few seconds of harsh, prism-shattered light. – It seemed to filter in from the corners of his vision every time the world jolted. But he just couldn't make sense of it. Hell, it could have been fucking lightening for all he knew.

Actually, come to think of it, it looked more like lightening than anything else. Splintering through the darkness with that same here and gone again signature, all zigzagged and uneven as it forked across his vision. But even then it was almost too much, searing across his retina's as his lids slammed shut, head pounding up a storm as the muted glow peeked through his closed lashes. …Blinding him from the inside out.

The rusty metal surface underneath him suddenly swerved. Sending him slamming up against the same curved protrusion he'd hit only moments before, ribs throbbing as he landed brutally. Ears ringing as the back of his skull smashed back against something hard and unyielding. - In fact he was so out of it that he barely even noticed the sharp crack that tore through the air above him. A single vicious peal that rose above all else for a few long moments before the dull, all encompassing roar was all he could hear once again.

He nearly hissed in frustration as his hands, or at least what he thought were his hands refused to budge. They were bound together so that his palms were almost touching, making it difficult to identify what was impinging his movements as he struggled to free himself. But the way he was laying was a whole other can of worms. Because hell if he could figure out why his arms were stretched out above his head, splayed out like some animal hung up for slaughter.

If he could just see what the fuck was going on…

He concentrated, trying to shake away the low buzz of static building in the back of his mind. Trying to identify his surroundings as someone alarmingly close cleared their throat then spat. He didn't understand the purpose behind the action until a few beats later when he flinched in response. Shuddering under his skin as a splattering of the disgustingly thick feeling gunk pebbled across the curve of his forearm.

What the shit?

But before he could do anything else, the world suddenly shifted, screeching to a discomforting halt as the overwhelming roar he'd first taken for inside his head spluttered to a sudden stop. – Wait, was that an engine?

He tensed as the sound of a truck door, rusty hinges and a popping left spring abruptly opened, then slammed closed. The action so close that he could actually feel the vibration through the metal underneath him. - Blunt nails scratching against the rusty metal flakes in affirmation as he finally figured out where he was. He was in the back of a truck, an old open bed Ford if the rattling purr of the engine was any guess.

He cocked his head, immediately recognizing the unmistakable scrape of boot heels crunching across loose gravel. Someone was coming, Rick or one of the others? But then why weren't they saying anything? What the fuck was going on? - He licked his cracked lips reflectively, tongue curling against the roof of his mouth as he tried to summon up enough spit to wet his painfully dry throat. Still counting each and every footstep as the person approached. Their gate confident and exaggerated, clearly making no effort to be quiet as they swaggered across the uneven gravel and clay.

Closer…closer…there.

The grating rasp of decaying metal screeched through the air as the truck hatch snapped forward, bouncing on its hinges as the person behind the action grunted reflectively. Still blind to whatever was happening; he recoiled when he was suddenly wrenched forward. Whoever it was entirely ignoring his writhing and struggling, as he tried and failed to kick out at his attackers. Curling in on himself reflectively as two sets of disgustingly clammy hands dug into the meat of his underarms and dragged him clear off the edge of the truck bed.

He slammed into the ground so hard he felt the impact in his bones. Unable to hold back a pained grunt as a thousand piercing pinpricks lanced through him as gravel and grit dug into his skin. Unable to use his hands to cushion his fall, he'd ended up face first on the uneven rocky drive. Spitting up a mouthful of blood and grime as a steady stream of liquid copper trickled down from his split lips, slicking his throat with red.

"Careful! The nasty little fuck is awake!" Came a sudden shrill, the exclamation piercing but decidedly masculine as it sounded off just to his right. - He lurched away on impulse, neck arching and vulnerable as a spray of dry Georgian soil scored across his cheeks in response. Almost as though whoever had spoken had also backed up quickly for good measure.

He raised his head, looking blindly towards the direction of the sound. The action instinctive and all but screaming with violence as he rolled away, tensing all his muscles at once as he used his bound hands to prop himself upright. Belly down on the ground and panting as adrenaline and panic kicked his remaining senses into overdrive.

But it was only when he rolled; deftly yanking himself out of the way of the clear scuff and swish that signaled that of an on coming kick, that he realized it wasn't darkness that was sliding across his tongue. It was the bitter tang of his own blood. And worse, that it wasn't dark outside at all, rather it was his eyes that were dark.

…He was fucking blindfolded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Please see original chapter for all explanations, warnings, and related summary information.
> 
> Authors Note #1: *This story is set in season two while they are still on the farm: between Sophia's death and the season finale. This is a titch AU as the author is taking some creative license with the time frame, pretending that there was more time between Sophia's death and the last few episodes. *Rated for adult language, adult situations, kidnapping, violence, allusions to rape, misogyny, chauvinistic attitudes, and some serious whump.

He must have blacked out somewhere in between dodging kicks and them yanking him to his feet. Because the next thing he was aware of was them dragging him through an entryway lined with thin, dirt strewn carpets and overly waxed floors.

And he thought, for a long moment, that this would be where it would all go down. But he was proved wrong when one of them suddenly cursed and fumbled with a key ring. Recognizing the unmistakable clink of metal against metal as the tumbler clicked into place and a door, all rusty springs and tired hinges, grudgingly swung open.

He felt the warmth of the high Georgian sun on his skin as they jostled him back outside, boot soles skimming across what felt like blacktop as he dragged his feet. Catching glints of sunlight through the blindfold as he deliberately slowed the pace, forcing them to heft the majority of his weight as he went purposely limp.

Might as well let the miserable fucks work for it…

He tried to keep track of all the twists and turns as they hustled him down a flight of stairs, then up another. Not missing the sudden breeze as they took a left, then a right and pulled him into yet another building. Only this time it was different, wrong.

Brain screaming, he baulked. Muscles tensing as the smell of burnt rubber, old death, and putrefied filth rose in his nostrils. It was enough to make him cough, shoulders hunching on reflex as he tried breathing through his mouth. Swallowing thickly as his abductors traded obscenities like they were fire crackers on New Years, yanking him down the length of the room as the scent only grew stronger.

A slick coil of dread tightened in his belly as he listened to the men following behind them. Following sedately as first two dragged him through the room without comment, refusing to slow even when he stumbled, and nearly fell. Starting in surprise when one of his boot heels came down across something brittle, yet strangely soft as a dry crack echoed through the still air.

What the fu-

And suddenly, as his leg brushed against something soft and cloth covered, he was strangely grateful for the blindfold as they pushed him through yet another doorway, leading him down a corridor and away from the lingering stench. Certain that the sight of whatever it was would probably be about ten times worse than the smell itself.

Christ, as it was it was enough to gag a maggot.

It took him a while but soon he was able to make out the shape of tile underneath his feet, the edges and groves worn smooth with age and overuse, dulled by decades of foot traffic and eventually neglect. He breathed deep, still trying to place himself in his surroundings, memorizing the way in case he had a chance to make a break for it later. Convinced that whatever these shit heads actually wanted, didn't involve anything as innocent as a friendly chat between survivors. …That was for damn sure.

He figured they were nearing the end when they started ascending a rickety, spiral staircase. The air growing clearer, fresher with every floor they climbed. Eight…Nine…Ten…Eleven…Twelve...Ahah! - He swayed dizzily; caught off guard at the sudden stop as the two holding him grunted and stumbled, scrambling up against the railing in an effort to keep him upright.

But it all came to a head when they hustled him down a long, echoing hallway and through a set of guarded double doors. The noise level rising significantly as they strode through the threshold and into the main room. – Shit, just how many of them were there?

"We got him boss! We got 'im!" trilled the high pitched man that had spoken before. A short, fat piece of fluff from what he could tell as the man squeezed past, jostling his injured side as he hurried forward. Sending pain searing down the flair of his hip as whatever was left of Hershel's stitch work caught on his freshly torn flesh.

Peachy, his day just kept gettin' better and better didn't it?

"Keep it down you idiot! The window's open! They'll hear," the man on his left hissed. Grumbling under his breath as the other man ignored him and hurried further into the room.

"Remember the one we saw up on that ridge a week back? Just south of the ravine?" The high pitched one continued. Clearly directing his words towards what he could only guess was the ring leader for this sorry band of assholes.

He rolled his shoulders and stood up straight, rising to his full height as he looked towards the direction of the conversation. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek as tension and uncertainty pulled his limbs taut. - If he could just see something, anything, he could get a better measure of his situation. As it was, at least from what he could tell, he was outnumbered by about six to one. And that was the good news.

"I recognize him. He was with that group Johnstein, Werner, and I saw on the highway down by that traffic pile up just before the main exit that leads into town," a new voice supplied. Sounding more disinterested and bored than anything else as the others broke out into excited exclamations and throaty laughter.

"Jackpot!" Someone yelled, their voice worrisomely close as they punctuated their exclamation with a vicious cuff to the back of his head. Caught off guard, he stumbled, vision stuttering, as static threatened to overwhelm his vision. Shoulders hunching defensively as the man snorted up a gob of spit, and spat.

"We caught him skulking around in the woods half a mile from that old loggin' road up around Minton, about two miles out from farmin' country." The high pitched man broke in, sounding disgustingly eager to please as he rushed to fill in the details.

But if the asshole had been looking for affirmation, the so called ring leader remained silent. Apparently content to let the man babble as the shifting mass of unseen people shoved closer. Their hands rough, but efficient as they patted him down. Unclipping his buck knife and sheath and rifling through his pockets before backing away.

"He'd just caught nice looking buck too," another man added, "looks like we'll all be havin' fresh meat tonight boys!" he finished, whooping excitedly as an appreciative roar rose up around them. The air ripe with cat calls and whistles as a bunch of them took off down the hallway and back towards the truck.

Inwardly he seethed. Why was it that he never seemed to be able to bring down anything bigger than a god damned squirrel without getting it gnawed on by a dead head or stolen by a bunch of sloppy fucks that probably didn't even know the first thing about skinning and gutting a kill? That was his damn deer.

"Whatcha' reckon he's worth to them back? Their weapons? Gas? A round with their bitches? …Hell, maybe all three!" The man holding into his right crowed, loosening his hold as he turned to face the others.

But that was all he needed. Because before the others could even formulate an answer he twisted in their grip, taking out the two holding onto him with twin sucker punches to the gut, going by touch and instinct alone as he drove his bound fists into soft, unsuspecting bellies and worn fabric.

It was anger, desperation, and a deep seated panic that he'd only experienced a handful of times in his life that was fueling his movements now. Drawing strength from some long hidden reserve as he lashed out, pulse deafening as it throbbed between his temples. - The man's words rebounding in his ears like a mantra as he drove his fist into what he estimated was the man's face. Lips curling as he felt something snap as his fist made contact with the fucker's nose, barely registering the high pitched scream that followed as he whirled in place, ready for his next target.

He took a kick to the gut before he could get much further. But instead of crumpling, he moved with it, absorbing the power behind it as he fell. Lashing out as he sprawled across the hard edged tile, pistoning his legs forward as he caught one of the idiots in mid-kick, sweeping his legs out from under him and sending him face first on to the floor as he rolled out of range.

His back arched as he was dealt another brutal kick to the base of his spine, his pained cry all but swallowed as the room erupted around him. Screaming and yelling as the group stampeded forwards then back, forcing him to go on the defensive as he launched himself backwards. Using his trussed up hands like a third limb as he pushed himself up off the ground and staggered to his feet. Blindfold slipping down until he was suddenly squinting into the brightness, sun searing across his retinas as he used his bound hands to yank the ratty material off completely.

…But when the burning faded and his vision returned to something resembling normal, he almost wished it hadn't. Because sometimes, reality was really fucking over rated…

He blinked, planting his feet in a defensive crouch as he considered his options. Caught off guard at the reality of his situation as he saw what he was facing for the first time since he'd regained consciousness.

But one thing was absolutely certain. There were too many of them. From what he could see, they were a group of men at least ten to fifteen strong. He was out numbered, out gunned, and worse? They were already closing in from all sides, apparently unimpressed as he stood his ground, refusing to back down.

"Ho, boys! We've got ourselves a live one, a fighter! They'll definitely want this little shit back," a tall, black haired man in a dirty green shirt and jeans quipped. Falling in with the others as the lot advanced on him, slowly backing him into a corner as he grasped at straws.

Damnit… He had no where to run. And successfully fighting his way out of this mess was about as likely to happen as he was to grow a pair of wings and fly by this point. Christ, he was so screwed.

And like an animal scenting blood on the wind, the others seemed to know it to. Because before he could make a move, green shirt rushed him. Alone there would have been no contest, injured or not he would have wiped the floor with the surly little fuck. The only problem was that the man hadn't come alone; he'd been flanked by two bruisers with meaty, football player shoulders and mean looks. And before he could even so much as scream foul, they'd taken him down in a flailing tangle of whirling fists and pained yelps.

The heel of someone's boot clipped his cheek as he gave as good as he got, his movements growing sluggish and confused as the rest of them converged on him from all sides. He rolled, managing to take down both green shirt and the man that had been holding onto his left before a bunch of them over powered him and started beating on him again. Dealing out vicious kicks and bruising blows as curled up into himself, tryin' to protect what he could as the fuckers just kept whaling on him.

He was holding onto consciousness by a fucking thread. Strangely aware of how the back of his head was slick and throbbing. Matted along the base of his skull with what he strongly suspected was his own blood. Leaving him with sticky fingers and a tinny echo in the back of his head that just wouldn't quit. His vision blurring as a tiny rivulet of crimson slipped out from between his lips and dribbled down his chin.

But before he could do anything else, before he even realized that someone had snuck in behind him in the first place, the cold barrel of a freshly primed pistol was suddenly pressing up against the back of his neck.

He froze in place. Pulse flat-lining. Breath catching in his throat as the barrel dug into the base of his skull. Sinking down into the heart of a nasty cut he didn't remember getting in the first place, barrel squelching as it slid through fresh crimson.

He closed his eyes for a long moment. Heart beat tripping in the sudden silence as the entire room seemed to hold its breath. His skin hummed, muscles twanging just under the surface as every part of him screamed for retribution. Itching to fight back and make every one of those miserable fucks pay for having ever crossed a Dixon.

Only he didn't…

Instead he forced himself to still. Feeling more than hearing the springs behind the trigger tighten, firming up against the few spare millimeters that stood between him and the world's longest dirt nap without even so much as a god damned pause.

His lip curled, features twisting into a wounded, but undeniably vicious snarl as he spat a mouthful of blood across the filthy, blue checker tiles. Recognizing the action for what it truly was. Checkmate.

…Well, fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

"Enough!" The man behind him snapped. Cutting through the whooping and cursing like a hot knife gliding through butter as the group surrounding him suddenly froze in place, acting like that single word by itself carried more weight than a dozen loaded pistols.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Tempering the urge to retaliate as nervous tension thrummed down the length of him, humming through his bones and down his spine until he was nearly vibrating in place. Twitching and sparking like a blown transformer spitting out it's last bit of juice, weakened, but undeniably dangerous.

Instead he forced himself to still. Ignoring the slow trickle that was beginning to seep down from a cut just above his right eye, letting it pass unhindered as a few rogue dribbles began dappling across his abused lips, painting him with his own fluids as he felt his skin grow taunt under layer after layer of partially dried blood.

"Was he alone?" The unseen man asked, completely ignoring him as he spoke over his head and towards the group of men that had captured him.

He cocked his head; there was something different about his voice. Something subtle and almost understated that played with the syllables as they slipped off his tongue. An accent perhaps? Yes, that had to be it. It was American, but definitely not Georgian. Sounded almost like New York, or maybe even Boston.

He was somewhat surprised when the high pitched douche bag that had spoken before didn't jump at the chance to respond, only flicking a rather self satisfied brow when green shirt shoved his way through the mess of people. Squinting through what promised to be a truly spectacular black eye as he straightened self consciously, his tattered green shirt now a splattered mess of dirt streaks and red splotches as he made to speak.

"He was with another man, young, black haired. But he sent him back the way they'd came about ten minutes before we took him." The man replied with a grimace, eyes flickering down at him murderously as he clutched at his side.

"…And you didn't go after him?" The leader hissed, voice steely and deliberately quiet, seemingly at odds with the way the group of men suddenly stilled. The entire crowd seeming to take a collective, half a step backwards as a muted flurry of whispering rippled through the crowd.

He blinked. Taking in everything from the group's body language to their facial expressions as the echoes reverberated inside his skull like parade music accompanying an unexpected epiphany. They weren't just nervous, they were scared shitless…

Green shirt's Adam's apple bobbed visibly, running a trembling hand through his stark black hair as he cleared his throat nervously. "N-no… He was long gone by the time we had this one surrounded. It took all of us just to take him down. And by the time we got him back to the truck there were walkers coming down from the loggin' road. There was no time to go after the other one without risking alerting his group." Green shirt responded, looking all kinds of hesitant as his eyes darted from the man behind him to the gun still shoved against the back of his head.

The silence stretched, breathless and suffocating as the leader remained silent. You could have heard a fucking pin drop. And honestly, he didn't blame them. The man had a voice that could have made anyone pause, oozing power, control and a particular brand of narcissistic self righteousness that you almost couldn't help but stop and marvel at.

A quiet shiver trickled down the length of his spine as he considered it, using the lull to his advantage as he took in every detail of the scene around him. From the high vaulted ceilings and shoddy décor, to the nervous tics and twitchin' limbs of the group ringed around him. This wasn't a community or a group…this was a pack of rabid dogs barely leashed by a brute of an alpha.

As it was it didn't take much effort to consider the man himself. Hell, he'd already formulated an image to match the snatches of words and half heard conversations that echoed in the back of his conscious mind. - This was a man that was used to obedience and utter compliance, that much was blindingly obvious. But he didn't just expect obedience, he demanded it. His leadership here was evidence enough of that, acting out a form of ruler ship that appeared to be enforced by fear rather than good example.

The mark of a dictator masquerading as a savoir…

It was all there in his voice. His tone had a quiet, understated strength that demanded one's attention more effectively than a yell or a shout. And worse still, it had a sort of false graciousness to it, coming out in a jagged mess of soft, lilting tones that put his teeth on edge without even tryin'.

Promising violence and retribution in every slip of the tongue and lightly accented syllable. Twisting harmless words and seemingly off-hand phrases into something under handed and foul. Until every word, every phrase was all but drowning under the weight of his own ill intentions.

He knew without having to turn around that this was a man that was not to be trifled with. The kind of a man you better pray you killed right the first time, because if you didn't you'd probably end up still being alive when your intestines started cooling in the open air.

Oh, he was a dangerous one alright, all soothing and dulcet on the surface, but as nasty as a crocodile and twice as mean just underneath. …Christ, he'd stepped in some seriously royal shit this time.

Coarse fabric rasped against coarse fabric as the man shifted behind him. Barrel squelching nastily as it firmed against the back of his head, flowing together with his change of stance as the man moved closer. Leaning down until he was just out of range, so close that if he dared to move his head, only a scant few inches would have separated them.

He remained motionless as the man sunk down on his haunches. His closeness making his lip curl as the man's calm, vapid breaths ghosted across his prickling skin. Spreading across his abused flesh like that of an oil slick, cloying and disgustingly thick as something inside him shuddered. The air around them suddenly awash with the scent of freshly washed skin and clean smelling clothes as the unusual smell filtered through his blood encrusted nostrils.

His fingers itched. Still bound together by at least two or three knots of rope as every cell in his body screamed for him to just whirl around and hamstring the bastard. To tear him apart with his bare hands and make each and every one of those miserable mother fuckers pay for what they'd done.

Shit, if only…

It was only when green shirt began to squirm in place that the man broke the silence. "Markham? Weston?" he called, causing two men he didn't recognize, to straighten and push to the front of the crowd.

"Deliver the usual message if you please. His vest should do the trick I think." The man behind him began, false deference all but oozing from his lips as the men nodded, muscles tensing visibly as their gaze flickered from him to the floor as the leader snapped his fingers sharply.

"Follow their trail as best you can. See if you can't find out where they're based. Then make sure you leave the message where they can all see it. I don't want a repeat of last time gentlemen. Remember, this plan doesn't work unless they know not only that their man has been taken, but where he's been taken to." He snapped, a shadow of annoyance creeping into his tone as the two men nodded quickly and started forwards.

Wait…What?

But before he could even so much as struggle, half a dozen new faces all but fell on him. Undoing the ties on his left side and wresting the thick black leather up and over his head. The action smearing streaks of fresh crimson across the dirty, angel wing decals until they flashed a rusty, fire hydrant red in the low afternoon light.

He hissed in pain. Injured side exploding into a burning mass of agony as one of the fucker's knees dug brutally into his side. Barely catching what happened next as the leader raised his voice above the din. Demanding silence as green shirt walked back into his line of vision. Inching forward in response to an invisible summons from the man behind him, trepidation and uncertainty clouding his features as a vein in his temple started pulsing rhythmically.

And in spite of himself, he stilled, captivated by the play of emotions that flickered across the man's face like microfilm. The whites of his eyes blood shot and far too large, as his forehead glinted with the beginnings of a clammy sweat. The man wasn't just afraid, he was fucking terrified…

He didn't have to catch all the words to get the just of the conversation. All he needed to see was how green shirt suddenly froze in place. Looking stricken and just a hair past utter terror as the tone of his skin suddenly did it's best to mirror the color of his shirt. Staying that way for a few long seconds before it seemed to pale. Turning sallow and sickly in the low light as the man nodded frantically and disappeared from sight.

"Take him to the back room and lock him up." The leader said dismissively, trousers rasping together as the man shifted. Making way for the others to seize him by the pits and drag him to his feet.

"You'd best let me go!" He rasped, nearly tripping over his own tongue as the first words he'd managed to get out since he'd regained consciousness all but tumbled from his lips. Teeth clenched together as the gun twitched against his skull, too angry and panicked to be concerned about the cool press of metal when all he could think about was the others. …Rick, Carol, Glenn…everyone. They didn't know. He had to warn them. These men were going to-…

But instead, he was stuck here, alone. Powerless to stop his mind from racing as every possible scenario streamed through his mind like one of those rickety old film reels they used to have in the community center back home. Useless contraptions that played those spotty, black and white cartoons after Sunday school that froze more often than they played in the first place.

It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to follow their trail back to the farm. There had been no reason to cover their tracks. And when they did…if the likes of this group found them... Well, Christ..

The barrel pressed up against his blood slicked scalp abruptly vanished as the group started to drag him away. Smacking him around as he arched his head backwards, desperate to caught a glimpse of the man in question as he dug his boot heels into the age-worn tiles and held his ground.

"…Or what?" one of the men heckled, looking back at his buddies with a cocky snarl as he yanked him forward. "You can't do nothin' about it shit head!" the man crowed, flashing a mouthful of crooked, nicotine stained teeth as he grinned nastily.

He baulked. There was no other way to describe it. Stomaching lurching as something in his mind just fucking snapped. Every muscle in his body went on point, crackling with nervous energy as every last reserve he didn't even know he had surged forward at once. Hell, he barely even felt it when he took a cuff to the temple. Struggling viciously as he legs and fists struck out frantically, connecting with hard muscle and unsuspecting flesh as he cussed out a blue streak to match. Kicking up one hell of a ruckus as the men barely hanging on to him were forced to physically drag him across the mud streaked tiles.

Because theatrics' aside, that asshole was right, he couldn't do a damned thing about it. Him, the others, he was fuckin' helpless. Bile rose up in the back of his throat at the very thought. Acrid and foul as it burned through the delicate tissue and flooded across his tongue, threatening to unman him completely as he gagged and nearly vomited. Throat constricting as he forced himself to swallow, determined not to give these idiots the satisfaction as they pushed him through the crowd.

…Because a Dixon didn't do helpless, not now and certainly not ever.

"Careful boys, we wouldn't want to damage the merchandise before delivery, now would we?" came an airy, disinterested sigh. As a few of the man jostled and stumbled. Clearly jockeying for position around him as the leader's voice molded almost seamlessly into the background.

Fuck this shit!

He craned his head, trying to get a look at the man as they dragged him away. Hands still bound together as he caught one of the fuckers with a vicious uppercut to the jaw. Almost succeeding in wriggling out of their grip entirely as the man's chin snapped back with the force of the blow.

But the leader didn't move into his line of vision at all. In fact, he didn't even seem concerned with the fact that the entire room was echoing with his curses and yells. Or that it was taking four fully grown men just to wrestle him from the room.

Instead the man simply sighed; the sound exaggerated and shockingly close as he finally managed to whirled in place. Catching only the smallest glimpse of cleanly pressed pin stripe trousers and a curly mop of thick, salt and pepper hair before the butt of the man's gun abruptly slammed down across the back of his head.

And suddenly, he wasn't thinking about much of anything anymore...


	4. Chapter 4

Splotches of light and over exposed color exploded across his vision as the ferocity of the blow sent him crumpling into his assailants' waiting arms. Vision spotty and fading as his legs folded underneath him, bending like sun-softened rubber the more he tried to regain his footing.

He sucked in a cautious breath, but expelled it harshly when he was suddenly yanked forward. Boots soles skimming the ground as they dragged him away. Limbs trembling as they half carried him through a set of double doors and down a narrow hallway lined with faded, oak paneled doors.

He held onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth, scrabbling for something… anything to keep him from going under as they wrestled his bound hands up and over what looked like a meat hook hanging down from one of the exposed ceiling beams.

His fears were confirmed when the men didn't leave right away. His skin all but crawling as they fiddled around with the restraints, adjusting them to his height before they pulled his arms above his head with a single, unforgiving tug on the thick metal chain.

He swallowed hard, shoulders screaming as he craned his head upwards, unable to stop himself from taking it in. Perverse and macabre, the wickedly sharp looking hook glinted in the low light. Casting mutilated shadows on the wall behind him like something out of his childhood nightmares as the hook swayed back and forth above him. Its movements grating and hypnotic as his body seemed to slump in on itself.

His head lolled, throat flirting with the tartness of fresh vomit as the noxious liquid rose in the back of his throat. His limbs trembled, spasming strangely as his injured side burned. The pain coming was in waves now, but he gritted his teeth and tried to shake it off. Trying and failing to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that figured that could only mean bad things, as the echoes of the men surrounding him rebounded inside his aching skull.

By the time they were satisfied he was practically hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the spartan, white washed room. The position painful and awkward as it forced him to stand perfectly straight, boot soles barely touching the floor as two of them inspected the knotted ropes that bound his hands together.

He snarled, lip curling at their closeness as the men only chuckled, jostling him cruelly so that he lost his footing and swung backwards. Muscles straining as he tried to regain his balance.

He fought for traction against the dusty tiles, a clammy sweat breaking out across his skin as he realized what the assholes had done. They'd ensured that there was hardly any give to the restraints. Rendering him unable slump or even relax without putting all his weight on his shoulders and arms. In fact, he had to concentrate just to retain his precarious position at all.

Fuck! Where had these assholes learned this shit anyway? Guantanamo?

But even then, despite the fact that he was already walking the tight rope between consciousness and oblivion, that didn't stop him from snapping his teeth and trying to yank himself backwards as one of them approached him with a gag. He backed up, but there was no where to run, shoulders screaming as the restraints sent him flailing into dead space.

It wasn't until one of the geniuses got him in a head lock that they were able to hold him still, shoving the rank smelling fabric into his mouth and fastening it brutally around his injured head. He nearly choked, working the wad of material around in his mouth like a horse chompin' at a bit, fighting for air as he struggled to breathe through blood clogged nostrils.

He was going to make them pay for this…for what they wanted to do, for what they were doing to do. But worse, for what they'd already done. Not just to him, but to others. To the people that had come before him. - Because there had been others, he was sure of it. As horrific as it was to think about, these shit stains weren't first timers. They knew what they were doing and they were fucking good at it. And considering the nearly unbearable smell of rotting flesh only twelve floors down, the evidence was pretty much undeniable.

Shit…

And true to his word, as the group of men made to leave, he tensed all the muscles in his torso. Grabbing the chain in his bound fists as he flung himself forward. Sweeping the last man's legs out from under him as the little twit landed flat on his face in the middle of the room.

He could have fucking smiled.

He couldn't even bring himself to regret it as the man, all messy blond hair and high cheek bones flailed and cursed, clutching at his bloody wreck of a nose as he struggled to his feet. Red faced and spitting mad as he lunged at him, cracking him hard across his face, once then twice before the other three wrestled him away and slammed the door behind them.

But by then it was too late, because the last blow had slammed his head against the wall behind him. Rebounding off the sticky plaster as the world exploded behind his tightly closed lids. - And just like that he was fucking gone. Because this was too much. ...He forgot how to breathe as pain rippled through him, stripping him down to naked tendons and tender flesh as he held back an agonized whimper. Shuddering and curling in on himself as the world came apart around him.

And he just couldn't-...It was too much. He was going to-... He bit off an agonized scream as a pulse of light seared across his vision. Head roaring with the deafening squeal of screeching tires and the hysterical sound of a woman screaming as he slowly started to remember.

His heart rate sped up, pulse pounding in his ears as half remembered flashes pierced through the growing fog. His head rolled, chin tipping down against his chest as he chased the shadows of the odd floater that coasted across the span of his vision. - Uncommonly frustrated by those annoying, squiggly little lines that only got harder to track the more you paid attention to them. Always seeming just an inch outta' of reach...

Christ, if that wasn't a metaphor for his life he didn't know what was…

A trickle of saliva found its way around the gag and dribbled down his chin as he wavered weakly. Muscles threatening to go down like a house of cards as his body gradually went limp. Arms screaming at the abuse as he tried to concentrate on simply breathing.

Something in the center of his chest ached, sending splinters of pain arrowing through his rib cage whenever he tried to breathe. Struggling to keep his breaths shallow and slow as not to jostle what he strong suspected was at least two or three broken ribs. He grimaced and shifted, determined to shake it off as the chaos in his mind slowly faded.

…After all, it wasn't like this was the first time he'd given his maker something to think about.

The chains clicked as he shifted in place, trying to take the brunt of his weight off his arms as his legs trembled in warning. Fuck. He shook his head, trying to remember how to switch off as a slow trickle of blood streamed down across the flair of his hip. The wound on his side burning as half forgotten memories of freckled cheeks and dirty blond hair skipped through his minds eye, searing through his defenses like a sucker punch to the gut.

Focus!

It was only when he concentrated that he could make sense of the memories. He'd been out hunting when it'd happened, having been saddled with Glenn when Rick had tentatively suggested that he start takin' one of the others out with him. ...To try and teach them the ropes or whatever.

Personally he had his doubts. He'd lived his entire life out in woods, and that kind of knowledge and experience didn't come easy. It wasn't a game or a bloody commune with nature, one wrong move and you were dead. His tumble down the ravine while looking for Sophia was evidence enough of that.

But before he could get a word in edge-wise the kid had all but bounced to his feet. Gear already packed and that eager, puppy dog stare firmly in place as he'd looked from him to Rick with an expression that told him that he might as well grit his teeth and bear it. The kid was coming along whether he liked it or not. …Peachy.

Carol had only smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

They were about two and a half miles from the farm when he found fresh tracks. But it wasn't until late afternoon that they finally caught up with them. And true to his word, after he'd put Glenn through the ringer about followin' his lead and not scaring the game, the kid hunkered down. Staying out of sight and more importantly, out of his way as he gingerly approached the small hollow they'd stopped in.

Jackpot…

It was a small herd, three nursing mothers and a yearling, all fat, sleek, and healthy. With a handful of spindly-legged babies munching contently on the tender roots and long grass that dotted the forest floor. Any one of the does would have sufficed. But it was the buck that had really caught his eye. By all accounts it was a gorgeous animal, boasting a full rack, firm shoulders, and a thick meaty chest. It was a prime catch, and one that would have been enough to feed them all for days, maybe even a week if they stretched it out right.

A prize a man could be proud of.

He calculated the distance and found his angle, letting the direction of the wind and the thick undergrowth work in his favor as he dropped to his knees. Stretching himself across the mouldering forest floor, all rich earth and springy moss, until he was pressed up against a small outcropping of rocks that ringed the rim of the natural hollow.

He remembered expelling his last breath in a single, streamlined rush. Shoulders rolling as his heart beat grew shallow. Body tightly reined as a familiar sort of calm flowed through him. Loosening all the muscles he normally kept tense until the trigger felt more like an extension of his fingers than anything else. His breath catching in his throat as something just shy of serenity settled over him.

Not yet…

The buck raised its head, antlers knocking against the low branches as its ears flicked uncertainly. Pink tongue darting out to wet its nose as it turned towards the tree line. He watched through the sight as the creature shifted. Huffing out a nervous breath as its keen senses detected danger on the wind. Glossy brown coat trembling like it was readying itself to run. …It knew.

Now!

His arrow caught the buck square in the chest in mid-flight, taking it down into the thick ferns and mossy undergrowth with a muted crash as the rest of herd bolted. The largest doe leading the way as they fled from the hollow in a panic, white tails puffed up in alarm as they crashed through the underbrush and out of sight.

After that he didn't waste any time, carefully making his way down to the center of the hollow as Glenn whooped in victory somewhere behind him. Making sure to slit the creature's throat before the kid stumbled down after him. Smirking in spite of himself as Glenn scrambled over a mouldering log and all but pranced to his side.

The kid's eyes were alive with the kind of excitement that reminded him of the aftermath of his own first kill. It had been close to three decades ago now, and to hear Merle tell it he'd been utterly insufferable. Strutting around like a peacock for weeks after he'd finally taken down the mean old coon that had been terrorizing the hawk's nest in the backyard, catching him right between the eyes with Merle's old slingshot after nearly an entire day of waiting.

Hell, even he had to admit that the buck had been the perfect kill, quick, clean, and challenging, certainly worthy of a bit of celebration. Besides, the kid's easy grin had been more than a little contagious.

They hit a small snag however when they realized that the damn thing was too heavy for them to lug back to the farm by themselves. If it had been Rick, T-dog or even Shane with him it wouldn't have been a problem, but not the kid, not yet anyway.

So he sent Glenn back to the farm. Reasonably certain that the kid could make his way there and back with one of the others before nightfall without getting turned around while he started fashioning a makeshift stretcher that would make lugging the massive animal a little bit easier. Glenn hadn't been too happy about leaving, but had taken off towards the farm at a light run at his pointed glare, machete in hand.

It hadn't been more than five or ten minutes later that the group had closed around him. He didn't remember much. Just the tell-a-tale crack of a twig snapping behind him, as he whirled in place, sinking down on his haunches as his eyes darted around the entirety of the hollow, trying to suss out his chances as he started edging away from the direction of the sound.

But by then it was too late. It had been five against one and they'd had him surrounded. They had an unfair advantage and were piss poor fighters to boot. But they'd had the numbers and had caught him off guard. And despite his best efforts one of them had eventually succeeded in knocking him unconscious. Dragging him away through the brush, and likely towards that old logging road green shirt had been talking about in the main room.

He shifted in his restraints, wrists rubbing together as he wriggled his fingers experimentally. Joints cracking as his tongue skimmed across his teeth, both top and bottom. Spitting out a curdling mouthful of molten copper and tangy iron when he finished, moderately surprised to find that he still had the whole set.

Lucky.

He held back a groan as his rib cage throbbed. Pulsing and resentful just underneath the surface as he twisted in place, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position as he considered his situation. - At least they didn't have the kid. He had that much going in his favor. Hell, if green shirt was telling the truth they probably hadn't seen much more of him than the back of his shirt as he'd taken off towards the farm to get one of the others.

If he was really lucky Glenn might have seen or even heard at least a part of what had gone down and had done the smart thing. High tailing it back to the farm to tell Rick and the group. But if he was just plain lucky, Glenn and one of the others would have returned to an empty hollow by now. No him, no deer, and a hell of a lot of kicked up undergrowth and boot tracks. Maybe even his crossbow if one of the assholes hadn't swiped it.

Suffice it to say, he hadn't gone quietly… He only hoped they'd be able to recognize the signs for what they were, city slickers or not.

With any luck they'd be able to piece together what had happen. Hell, they could even be meeting together right now, trying to figure out what to do about this whole cluster fuck of a situation. Further to that, if they figured out what had happened then they'd probably already be on alert. Maybe they'd even catch one of the assholes in the act, tryin' to leave that message their leader had talked about and his vest as bait.

But then again, with both him and the deer gone, maybe they'd just assume that walkers had gotten him. Or worse, maybe Merle had been right all along; maybe they wouldn't care about what'd happened to him either way…

After all, that was the crux of this whole god damned problem. It all rested on a mighty big if…


	6. Chapter 6

He wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep standing up, or if he was hurt worse than he'd originally thought when the next thing he became aware of was a blurred shadow leaning up against the door frame in front of him.

…What the shit?

Caught off guard, he seized in place. Bindings rattling sharply as he somehow managed to trip over his own feet, momentarily forgetting where he was as he flailed in place. Completely at the mercy of the hanging metal chain as he lost his footing and stumbled forward. Muscles screaming at the strain as his shoulders, his arms, his…everything throbbed.

Static buzzed in his ears, deafening and almost unbearable as he hunched into himself. Pulse racing as he forced himself to take deep measured breaths, gradually finding his footing as worn soles slid over the filthy blue tiles. Toes flirting with the edges of the smooth ceramic as he swung back and forth, screwing his eyes shut as he waited for the world to stop spinning.

He wasn't sure how long it had been before the roaring in his ears finally lessened, but either way he was surprised to find that the shadowy figure was still there when he looked up. Leaning up against the door rather unconcernedly, apparently content to remain wordless as he found his footing and straightened.

He blinked, vision blurring then sharpening like the focus on a cheap camera as the shadow gradually took shape in front of him. Slowly firming into something solid and real as his mind struggled to pull itself out of that odd place that existed somewhere in between consciousness and darkness.

His mind was still riding the last lingering waves when he finally managed to focus, nearly loosing it all over again as the pointed click of the man's tongue echoed through the close space like a thunderclap. - Oh…

He recoiled so violently he nearly gave himself whiplash. Body screaming as a half strangled whine slipped unwilling from his tightly clenched lips. Skin fever hot as he snarled under his breath as a dark and almost feral part of him recognized the man instinctively.

Because by the time he caught sight of that odd mix of dark brown and silvery grey, he knew. It was him, the man with the steady hand, quick draw, and a voice that resounded throughout the room like that of weathered honeycomb. - Sweet, wild, and easy on the surface, but deceptively strong underneath. A persona riddled through with enough holes and fantastic dangers that it would have given almost anyone pause. Second guessing their craving for the sweetness lest they become the latest in a long series of hapless victims brought down by hidden stingers and the low, electric buzz that signaled the close of some well hidden trap.

He knew him right down from the delicate rasp of those expensive cotton trousers, to the harsh cut of his profile in the low, overhead light. There had been no question. No second guessing or wary distrust. Only hate, vengeance, the urge to lash out, snarl and fight back. To take back what they'd stolen, not just from him, but from all the others that had suffered by their hands. And to punish them in advance for what they planned to take.

Because he wouldn't let them… He wouldn't let them even so much as touch the others... Somehow…

But the man, for his part, did nothing. In fact he remained frustratingly silent as he leaned up against the door, reclining against the mouldering frame in a graceful slouch. Standing there as bold as brass, with one well polished shoe balanced on its point as if he were merely a second away from remarking on the weather. - In fact the man looked supremely unconcerned with his reaction as keen green eyes took in his every move. Watching him like a predator does with its prey. Observing and learning.

After all, he would know…

His spine stiffened, arching up like a disgruntled tom cat as his abused shoulders tensed. Forcing himself to steady as he glared right back. Lips curling in a graceless sneer as rationality and common sense fled in favor of rivalry. - And for a long moment they just stared at one another. Because for the first time since he'd felt the barrel of the bastard's gun pressing up against his skin, he finally had the opportunity to look the man straight in the eye.

Fresh blood smeared between his fingers as he threaded the crooked digits together, losing himself in the details as neither of them made any effort to hide their scrutiny. Their interest blatant and downright predatory as they sussed out every scrap of information that could possibly be used to their advantage. Shamelessly stripping each the other down to bare bones and simple gestures as their eyes locked and the icy silence dragged.

He was surprised to find that the man was tall, but not overly so. Slight in the shoulders but visibly compact in the same way that Grimes was. Boasting a thin, runner's frame that was deceptively strong yet extremely versatile. Ribbed from forearms to calves with tight, lean muscle that was just crying for some poor bastard underestimate. …Having no doubt that many already had. - He looked to have about a decade on Grimes however, what with his salt and pepper hair and that careful way he arranged his limbs when he shifted in place. But despite this his face remained vaguely youthful. Too youthful…fake.

He squinted at the man in earnest now, systematically taking in the man's features as he realized that a number of things just didn't add up. It took a few moments of intense scrutiny, but he nearly smirked when he figured it out. The flighty douche had had some work done!

He could have fucking crowed.

It was all there in the lack of crow's feet and gentle wrinkles. In the way the skin remained taut around the cheekbones and ridiculously smooth where there should have been laugh lines and sloping character. It was unnatural, especially given the man's age. And frankly it only served to add to the off putting nature of the man's appearance.

'Not so confident after all.' He thought with a sneer, taking it as his due when the man glared right back. His expression going hard edged and rankled, as if he could sense the nature of his unfavorable thoughts through expression alone.

Still, as much as he didn't want to admit it, there was something about him that put his hackles on edge. Finding the mere sight of the man disarming in a way he couldn't quite explain. It felt like he was staring at something empty and vapid. A mask set upon a mask by a person who likely couldn't tell the difference between reality and the one he'd fashioned for himself through that of needle and fluid. Chasing empty things like youth and beauty as the mirror only highlighted what the years were slowly taking away.

He didn't understand it, the desire to change one's self in such a way, and honestly he hoped he never would. But then again, he'd never been one to put much stock in looks or appearance. You were who you were in his opinion; it wasn't your fault if people couldn't see beyond that.

He watched the man through new eyes as he took in the rest of him. Filing away every detail for further consideration until he was satisfied that he hadn't missed an inch. Taking him in from patented leather shoes, to his resplendent blue and silver button up. Finding him well dressed in a way that screamed something beyond pampered city boy or pretentious asshole.

Hell, it was the god damned apocalypse and the pompous douche was wearing dress shoes.

But other than that, the man wasn't anything special. Regardless of what he tried to put off he was still host to the same sharp, almost exaggerated thinness that stood out in all their faces these days. A look indicative of a person who had gone from three square meals a day to significantly less in a remarkably short period of time. Going gaunt in the cheeks and sallow below the eyes as the body began to take from within.

Christ, it was a look that was almost too familiar…

"Seen enough?" He finally rasped. Breaking the silence in his usual, indelicate fashion as the other man straightened against the white-washed frame. Stretching leisurely as the hint of a smile ghosted across the curve of his lower lip.

"Just admiring the craftsmanship…" The man replied easily. Seemingly oblivious to his disgusted expression as the man's eyes trailed down the length of him. Making no effort to hide his interest as cool green eyes took him in from muscled arms to blood encrusted torso. Lingering on the long stretches of exposed skin and the bold jut of his hips before traveling back up to meet his eyes.

Fuck.

A gross shudder rolled down his spine at the calculating look that had taken up residence in the back of the man's eyes. And for the first time in long time he remained silent. Having no idea how to respond to what the man might have just implied, he tried to school his features. Showing none of his discomfort despite the fact that he suddenly felt filthy, slick and oily to the touch like he'd just finished rolling around in a vat filled with piss, vomit, and bit of coagulated walker's blood thrown in for flavor.

Christ, at this point that might have even been preferable… It was getting hard to tell.

But he was saved from having to respond when the man turned on his heel, dragging a chair out from the hall and into the room without a backward glance. Eventually setting it down just a few meters out of reach before he paced around the length of the room. Staring him down like a farmer inspecting cattle for the slaughter.

"Now, despite your situation, I see no reason for us not to be civil." The man began, openly ignoring his incredulous glare as lean legs and wiry shoulders settled down into the high backed chair with an appreciative sigh.

"After all, it isn't very often that we have the chance to meet new… people these days, now is it?" He continued, long fingers gesturing magnanimously about the room before gracing him with the shadow of a lopsided grin. As if they were merely old school friends sharing confidences rather than kidnapper and well, whatever he was.

But if the man was hoping for a response, he didn't bite. Instead he just hung there, spine ram-rod straight as he dissected the man with his eyes. Hackles rising as he let his thoughts wander without censure. Idly wondering if the man was as ugly on the inside as he was out, finding something rather primally satisfying about the idea as he entertained the hope that he'd soon get the chance to find out.

When he remained silent something flared in the back of the man's eyes. Smouldering in the back of his gaze like freshly stoked coals before he covered the reaction by smoothing out a collection of imaginary wrinkles in his trousers. Blunt digits digging harshly into the expensive fabric as the man's face went carefully blank. - Momentarily nonplussed when he realized that it felt a lot like a victory.

"May I be frank with you Mr…" the man trailed off, intelligent eyes flicking from him to the chain he was shackled to with an undeniably curious air. His smug, but fastidiously disinterred tone already firmly back in place as he stared down at him.

"Dixon." He allowed, seeing no point in withholding his name as he watched the man's leg twitch in place, vibrating minutely just underneath the skin before the man's hand fell across the span of it, effectively stilling it in place.

"…Mr. Dixon?" The older man finished, cocking his head to the side as he drew out the last few syllables. His eyes growing guarded as one of his men slipped into the room and whispered in his ear. All muted tones and half hushed whispers before the leader nodded and gestured the man out of the room without even so much as a word in reply.

"By all means, hoss," he retorted, emphasizing the title with a low drawl that seemed to irritate the man even further, recognizing his mocking tone as he ground his teeth in response.

'Not so cool headed now.' He thought viciously. Reveling in the moment as he kept his face carefully blank, refusing to give up even so much as an inch of his unexpected advantage as the man all but fumed in front of him.

He could tell now that there was something about him that bothered the other man as well. Something that put him on edge and off center. And while he didn't flatter himself in thinking that it was a reaction indicative of a man who had met his match and found himself wanting, he couldn't help but feel that it was pretty damn close.

So despite the fact that he had no idea why, he certainly wasn't about to let such an opportunity pass him by. ...An opportunity to wield a bit of leverage that was all his own…

…He was a Dixon, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

"I can see that we are at something of an impasse here, Mr. Dixon." The man remarked, seeming to rethink his strategy as he leaned back, clearly thinking hard before he stretched in place. Suddenly the epitome of careless grace and easy confidence as he inspected his nails thoughtfully.

He glared, but didn't disagree. No shit Sherlock.

"However, as I was going to say before, if you'd be comfortable with answering a few questions, I might be able to arrange some water and a share of that magnificent animal you caught us for dinner." The man began, seeming to back up his claim as one of the cronies waiting in the hall hurriedly passed him a bottle of water before retreating back out into the hallway.

"Nothing compromising mind you, just a talk… man to man as it were," the leader added, hastening to finish his sentence when keen eyes caught sight of his incredulous expression.

"Your bindings of course, would be undone for the duration; perhaps even for good providing you behave yourself." The man continued, tone slightly hedging as he ticked off the conditions like items on a check list.

He raised a brow as the man paused; clearly giving him time to think about his offer as his mind promptly pulled itself in five different directions at once. - Because while he certainly didn't trust the man, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth at this point either. He needed water, food, and rest. And this seemed to be the only way he was going to get any of them. Besides, it wasn't like he had to answer anything truthfully, the man didn't know enough about them to be able to tell the difference anyway.

"Well? Is this acceptable to you?" The man prompted, long fingers playing with the rim of the plastic cap as the bottle glinted in the low light.

'Like fuck.' He thought internally, angry in spite of himself when he was unable to stop his eyes from darting towards the proffered bottle and back to the man's face.

His throat felt painfully dry as he swallowed, desperate for a bit of moisture as his tongue caught on the dryness. Curling thickly against the roof of his mouth as his split lips throbbed in concert. Unable to summon up the energy to spit out the bits of grit and phlegm that had built up in the back of his throat, as a distressed little hiccup issued from between his tightly clenched teeth.

Christ, he was thirsty…

And in the end, that was what it came down too. So regardless of his feelings, he gave the man a careful nod. Eyes catching on the proffered bottle as the man inclined his head and gestured his guards forward, setting them to the task of undoing his bindings with the air of a man proffering some long coveted gift.

He hit the floor with an audible thud, not realizing how much he'd counted on the chain to keep him upright and somewhat vertical until his hands were suddenly yanked free and his full weight fell on his weakened legs without warning. Sending them crumpling underneath him as he went down in a chaotic jumble of painfully tangled limbs and nausea inducing vertigo.

Because he couldn't, it was just too much… He wasn't going to be able to-

He didn't remember hitting the ground, at least not exactly. But what he did remember was the vibration. The dull thrum of bare kneecaps meeting unforgiving tile, followed by the slick slap of barely dried crimson as his torso and arms were quick to follow. He lost himself in the percussive noise of his own heart beat as his legs folded. Knees and hips hitting the floor hard enough to bruise as his head lolled across the span of his outstretched arms. Unable to summon up the energy to even raise his head as the man's eyes glittered above him.

"Now, now gentlemen, Mr. Dixon is our guest," the man chided as the two men who unhooked the chain let him drop, the lack of warmth and sincerity in his tone flaying through the pain like a dull blade sawing through undeserving flesh.

And for a long moment he just rested there. Slumped across the floor in a heap of blood soaked limbs and dirt encrusted skin, too tired to either notice or care as an awkward shower of dried crimson fluttered in his wake. Drifting through the air like paper rain as the sudden screech of a chair being pushed back brought him crashing back down to the present.

He hissed in pain as blood flowed back into his deadened joints. Ignoring the pointed sniggers as his limbs trembled. Leaving him with nothing else to do but to clutch at his wrists and hold back a few well deserved whimpers as the rope that had bound them together was finally cut away. Freeing his circulation until his very fingers pulsed and throbbed. Sending arcing splinters of pain sparking down from sore shoulders to swollen fingers until he was suddenly stuck between trying to decide if the pain that rode in on the coattails of that freedom was entirely worth being untied at all.

Mother fucking hell that stung!

He pulled himself backwards. Grunting with the effort as his broken ribs throbbed, only stopping when his back met the wall, before he slumped against it gratefully. He was fairly certain that the sound he made in response was not actually a word at all. But either way he was far too exhausted too care. All he knew was that in that moment, as he leaned up against the wall, sprawled out indecently across the blue checker tiles, it was pretty damn close to the best feeling in the world.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, resting his head against the wall as the hook clinked in the air above him, swaying back and forth in the low light. Red with rust and caked over with the cloying stink of fear and regret as he opened his eyes and took it in for the first time.

Christ…

And true to his word, the man tossed the bottle towards him. Letting it skitter across the tiles until it struck his leg with a muffled thump. He ignored the trembling in his hands as he snapped off the cap and raised the rim to his lips. Too thirsty to care if the man had seen as he took a hesitant sip and then another.

God, that was good…

He managed a few swallows before he choked. Water streaming down his chin as his throat rebelled, caught off guard by the refreshing slickness as the cool liquid sluiced down his abused throat. And when he'd drained it, the man simply clicked his fingers, and before the echoes had ceased another one was pushed into his startled hand. He gripped the bottle so hard the plastic warped.

He wasn't sure why, but with the water came a measure of clarity. With the encroaching static falling into the backdrop as his limbs trembled, humming just underneath the skin with nervous energy as he tested his range of movement. Wary of the labored quality of his breathing as his legs twitched in exhaustion.

He felt like shit and probably looked ten times worse.

Damn, he'd really stepped in it this time…


	8. Chapter 8

He blinked blearily, free hand ghosting across his chin as the harsh rasp of stubble grated across his blood stained palm. Coarse and rough as dried blood speckled across his bruised skin. Taking in the sight with a strange sort of bemused detachment as the low buzz of conversation floated through the air above him.

"Now, that's better isn't it?" the man began, keen eyes fixed on the curve of his throat as he started sipping at his second bottle gingerly. Savoring the cool liquid as his swollen fingers pulsed hotly, sending waves of sticky heat thrumming down his skin until he felt dizzy with the power of it.

He wanted to say all manner of unsavory things about the man. But in a strange way, despite the fact that the pretentious prick currently had the power to decide whether he lived till sunrise or died in a puddle of his own fluids, he couldn't help but admire the man's demeanor. There was a sense of utter and complete confidence about him. Something that was undeniably alluring regardless of the circumstances.

Hell, it was no wonder he'd amassed such a large and strangely loyal group. There was something about him that demanded respect. A powerful and undoubtedly dynamic persona that promised you the world in the same breath as it demanded your obedience. In many ways this group stood out as the polar opposite of his own. This man demanded loyalty through fear and charisma, while Rick preached for the inclusion of softer things. Things like friendship, respect, and brotherhood.

After all, even when the man had held that gun to his head, his hand hadn't wavered. Not even by an inch. Most people's convictions change when they are about to take a life, with bravo and pride quickly dissolving into sweaty fingers and second guessing. But not him, no, this one was different. Like a king cobra in the middle of a vipers nest, he stood out from the rest.

And on a lesser person, the man's charms might have even worked…

But there was something else. Something he knew he was still missing. It was fucking infuriating. Because every time he swore he had it, he lost it again. With recognition slipping through his fingers like water draining from a sieve before he had a chance to realize the nature of what he'd just lost.

Frustration mounting, he forced himself to focus and looked harder. Berating himself for not being able to pin it down as he watched the man flip the cap of his water bottle from palm to palm. The action playful, but without warmth as he stared him down from across the room, boot heel tapping along to a tune that only he could hear as snatches of conversation drifted in from the hallway

There was a nervous tic just below the man's right eye, and calluses on his left thumb and forefinger. But so what? What did that really tell him anyway? That the snarky fuck was a prime, middle aged ulcer case that also just happened to be left handed? Even to him that sounded weak.

He shook his head ruefully. No, it was something else. He was missing something, something just beneath the surface. …Elusive. Something that left him powerless to shake the feeling that he was missing something essential about his captor, something would likely spell the difference between life and death if his instincts were anything to go by.

It was something that seemed to slip out when he talked. Like right now, while he pretended to be busy taking slow pulls from his water, the man himself had turned, angling his body towards the door as he engaged one of the men waiting in the hall in a hushed, but undeniably heated conversation.

After all, it didn't take much to notice the professional lisp and condescending lilt that seemed to take up residence in his tone the longer any given conversation lasted. It felt like watching someone flirt with a hair trigger. Like being in the same room with someone who was five seconds away from pressing that shiny red button you see in the movies labelled Danger: Nuclear Warhead, but knowing you'll never be able to reach them in time.

"You got a name gramps?" he finally spat, vaguely thinking that if he wanted to continue this charade he might as well draw it out for as long as possible.

"Manning," the man replied, inclining his head in a mock bow as he unfurled his limbs and rose in one fluid movement. Pointedly fingering a small badge attached to his belt that he hadn't noticed before. "Agent Richard Horace Manning."

"Agent?" he snorted incredulously, "what, like the FBI or somemat?" he shot back, tone tinged with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity as he drew his knees up to his chest.

"FEMA actually," the man replied smoothly, swishing a mouthful of water from cheek to cheek before swallowing. "Co-head of the Protection and National Preparedness division in Boston." The man finished, tone bored, but edging on imperious as he pivoted on his heel, inclining his hip so he could get a closer look at the badge as he crossed in front of him.

It was the real deal alright, a complimentary mix of fake silver and gold, where an eagle, wings outstretched, ringed the center of a globe. Recognition flashed in his minds eye as he remembered the news broadcasts that had reeled out in the weeks before the televisions had gone out. Recalling nation wide broadcasts and stilted new conferences where harried looking officials with PR smiles had mounted podiums and droned on about safe zones and inoculation centers. Telling you everything but what you really needed to know. Like what was actually going on and how bad it really was.

"About a month before the main power grid went down, I was sent to Atlanta by the director himself. I came down with the last military convoy and had orders to set up a new base of operations in Atlanta proper. Seems as though a bunch of my colleagues in the PNP branch here had already gone and gotten themselves infected trying to evacuate civilians from a low income housing district before we'd even arrived," the man began, knuckles brushing against the span of the burnished gold badge like some sort of compulsion as he paced across the length of the room.

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The man had the floor now; he might as well see what he was going to do with it.

"As you can imagine, they didn't leave me with a whole lot to work with. The Atlanta branch has always been notoriously under staffed, even at the best of times. I'd even warned home office about it in the New Year. Months before all this, but of course, no one listened." The man remarked heatedly, eyes going distant as his index finger hooked around his belt loop.

His eyes trailed down to the man's hands and paused there. Realizing that while Manning wore his badge prominently, keeping it well polished and clearly on display. There was also a pale gap on an otherwise tanned ring finger that spoke of a wedding band that was no longer being worn. Almost as if the man had kept one thing and cast aside the other.

"FEMA? Bang up job you guys are doing so far," he retorted. Eyes fixed on the man's fingers before he reluctantly looked away.

But it seemed as though he'd finally gone a step too far, because before he could take it back, the man snapped. In fact, all the warning he got was when something flashed in the back of the man's eyes. The cords in his neck suddenly bulging as blindingly white teeth were bared in a wordless snarl. - His deranged expression only completing the picture as the man lost it for the first time.

"If certain recommendations had been put into place none of this ever would have happened!" Manning yelled. Flecks of spit spraying from his mouth and speckling across his skin as the man swooped down. Barely eight inches away from his face as the man's expression twisted up into something vicious and foul.

"I was recommending cut and dry survival! The survival of an entire city… No, an entire state! And they were more concerned with the soft targets! I knew what had to be done. Me!" The man hissed, green eyes manic as blunt fingers closed around his aching shoulders, holding him in place with surprising strength as he flinched under the mans hands.

"Now we are doing it right. We're starting over... The right way…" Manning hissed, voice cracking, going high pitched and demented as he forced himself to remain still. Look him in the eyes as bright emerald green went bloodshot. And surprisingly sharp nails sunk into his sore shoulders, pinning him solidly to the wall as Manning's cronies shifted uncertainly behind him.

The man was so close that he could actually smell the harsh tang of freshly burnt cordite and singed fabric that clung to the man's flesh like a second skin. Acrid and wrong in a way that turned his stomach and set his teeth on edge. Hell, he didn't even notice when he nearly bit through his god damned cheek. Jaw tense as he gnawed at the abused flesh until his tongue was nearly drowning under a flood of freshly smelted copper.

Every instinct he had was screaming for him to bolt. Too punch, kick, claw, and sink his teeth into the first available swath of skin he could reach and just run for it. But he couldn't move. Instead he just stared, mindless of the blood that was starting to trickle out of the corner of his mouth, strangely fascinated as he watched the man's mask of civility crumble. Melting away right in front of his eyes as the echoes of the man's ravings rebounded in the eves. Venomous and unyieldingly cruel until the echoes were swallowed by a discomforting silence that put his hackles up more than anything else.

And perhaps not so coincidentally, for the first time since he'd woken up in the back of that rickety old pick up, a small tendril of fear coiled in his gut. Curling into itself like nausea before it rose up his battered throat. Moving upwards, like a sickness destined to spread.

The man wasn't just a narcissistic asshole or a cold blooded murderer. He was fucking crazy…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: (from wiki)
> 
> *FEMA: (Federal Emergency Management Agency.) The primary purpose of FEMA is to coordinate the response to a disaster that has occurred in the United States and that overwhelms the resources of local and state authorities.
> 
> *Protection and National Preparedness: (PNP) is one of the main branches of the organization. Main focus: responsible for the coordination of preparedness and protection related activities throughout FEMA, including grants, planning, training, exercises, individual and community preparedness, assessments, lessons learned, continuity, and national capital region coordination. - Includes divisions such as: the office of counter-terrorism and security preparedness, office of preparedness integration and coordination, the preparedness task force, and the strategic resource management office.


	9. Chapter 9

As it turned out there were no questions or even dinner for that matter. After Manning lost it, he ordered him re-chained and stalked from the room in an unbalanced whirlwind of compulsive movement and half growled orders that made it sound as though the man were gargling gravel rather than speaking at all. Forcing his cronies to have to jog to catch up as they hastily re-shackled him and slammed the door closed behind them, leaving him in total darkness.

He might have slept. It was hard to tell in the absence of light or any way to measure time. For his sake he hoped he did. Maybe he'd finally learned how to sleep standing up. But somehow he doubted it. Luck didn't exactly seem to be on his side these days…

The next time they came they weren't so gracious. Because before his muddled brain could process the sound, the door swung open and four dirty, unshaven men descended on him from all sides, wrestling him off the hook and to the floor before grabbing him by the armpits and dragging him down the hall towards the main room.

His eyes stung, watering and burning as the high afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the rooms they passed. Blinding him to all else as they kicked his legs out from under him every time he tried to stand. Leaving him with nothing but the sound of blood hardened fabric rasping across the floor and the growing smell of burnt rubber as the soles of his boots tried and failed to gain a measure of traction.

"Call off your dogs, hoss," he rasped, grunting in pain when one of them shoved him down into a chair that had been arranged in the center of the room.

The room was mostly empty save for Manning, the goon squad that had brought him in, green shirt, and the high pitched douche that had been around since the beginning. But despite his crack Manning ignored him, looking out the large window that made up at least half of the northern most wall. His features silhouetted by the high arches and glided metal sill as the agent stared out into the bright Georgian skyline.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the worst of the pain as his aching muscles throbbed, pounding in concert with his pulse as he shifted awkwardly in his seat. - He used the reprieve to collect himself, watching first hand as the agents spine slowly straightened. His posture composed and hands posed carefully behind his back as Manning let the silence stretch.

"Get him food, water, and unbind his hands," the older man suddenly ordered, not even so much as looking at him as half the goon squad piled out the main doors and the other wrestled him out of his bindings, leaving his hands free as they shackled his legs around the metal frame instead.

Manning didn't turn around once during the whole process. Remaining at his post at the window as the group that had left the room returned with a folding table, an extra chair, water, and an odd assortment of packaged foods that looked like they'd been taken off the shelves of some grocery store at random.

He eyed the man for a long moment before he tore into the spread, hunger and thirst overwhelming that of pride as he ripped into a cold hunk of venison with relish. Eating like he expected the food to be taken away from him at any moment. Filthy hands and all…

His stomach roiled, but he forced himself to eat. Ribs throbbing as he nearly choked on his last mouthful of venison and started on the package of crackers, knowing by experience that he had to eat as much as he could in order to keep up his strength.

After all, god only knows when he'd be fed again. Manning had proven that much by example already.

It wasn't until he'd drained two bottles of water and his immediate hunger had faded to a dull roar that he licked his fingers and straightened. Not missing the way that green shirt and the high pitched man stiffened in response, with the later going as far as to stalk up behind his chair and crack his knuckles like he knew how to rodeo.

"Is he gunna hump my leg or what?" he spat, raising a pointed brow at Manning's back as he gestured towards the man fidgeting beside him. Ignoring the man's indignant huff before Manning silenced them both with a wave of his hand.

"I am going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer them. Is that understood?" Manning began. His words cut off and brittle, completely vacant of their previous simpering and charismatic warmth as he turned on his heel and faced him for the first time since he'd entered the room.

"Or what, you'll kill me?" He snorted, sweeping a pile of crumbs across the table before he took large gulp of water. Body language borderline disdainful as he swallowed roughly, willing down a spell of nausea as Manning's cronies chuckled darkly behind him.

"Something like that," Manning replied, hands posed on his hips as a morbid smile flirted wit the corners of his down turned lips.

"Well, at least you're going to be original about it." He muttered sarcastically. Taking in a measure of the room as Manning's turned back towards the window, noting the number of possible exits before crossing that with the number of men and weapons that he could see on first glance.

He was out numbered ten to one at the very least. He was weaponless, weak, disoriented, wounded, and probably a whole handful of other things he didn't care to admit, even to himself. But if they thought he was going cave, they had a whole other thing coming. Hell, he'd been bred to take beatings. After all, he hadn't survived Merle just to be brought down by the likes of these nasty little shits.

"You must realize by now that we know where your friends are. So there is no need for any lies or mistruths. Your loyalties can remain your own, if that is what you wish," the man began, "I respect that in a man, the desire to do right by his own. It speaks of something beyond the self," Manning mused.

"And yes, to answer your unasked question, they are still alive. We're not total barbarians you know," Manning sighed, cheeks dimpling with inappropriate amusement as he approached, leaving the window behind.

He glared, but said nothing. Frustrated in spite of himself that his concern had been so evident.

"I have to admit that it's a lovely spot, ideal even. I decided to go and see it for myself after Johnston and Weinstein reported back. Not up close mind you, but from a distance," he began, keen eyes flickering over him as he tensed in place.

Anger rippled down his spine at the mere thought of the man and his cronies being within even a god damn mile of the place. The man had said they hadn't gotten close… But had the others seen them? Did they know? Did the kid even make it back alright? Did they even have his vest and his kidnapper's message? Fuck. He ran a hand through his blood stiffened haired, forcing his nerves to steady. Shit… The last thing he needed was for him to lose it in front of these clowns.

"It's rather charming. I assume it's the old man's?" Manning mused, apparently oblivious to his thoughts as he continued without waiting for an answer, "of course it is, a prime piece of property like that, rich, fertile, off the beaten path… Hell, it's probably been in his family for generations," he concluded smugly.

"And now, just as it ever was, it stands as a veritable paradise amidst this chaos." Manning continued, sighing exaggeratedly before gesturing out the window to encompass the street and forests beyond.

"However, what I don't understand is why you are…traveling with them in the first place. You seem to me, the odd man out if you don't mind my frankness. From what I've observed they don't seem to share your…particular view of things," the man countered, whirling in place as he eyed him down from across the table.

"And what the fuck would you know about my view of things?" He shot back, eyes squinted into a glare that would have made Merle himself proud as he caught the man's gaze and held it.

"Perhaps nothing or perhaps more than you'd expect," Manning began, tone self righteous to a fault as he inspected his nails fastidiously.

"You see, I pride myself with being an excellent judge of character Mr. Dixon. It is a talent that has rarely steered me wrong, and I find that during these days it has become something of a necessity." The man explained, appearing supremely unconcerned with his own self conceit as he inclined his head towards him.

"I've been with 'em since the beginning. I see no reason to change what 'aint broken," he finally allowed, forcing himself to shrug and feign disinterest as the man turned sharply.

"How very… sentimental of you." Manning replied smoothly. "I am sure they rely on you a great deal."

"Look hoss, is there a point to all this side stepping or are you the type of man that plays with his food before eating it?" He challenged, stare going heated when Manning only laughed in response.

"You know, for what it's worth, Mr. Dixon, I like you. You are rather…refreshing, especially in light of our present company," Manning hummed, eyes straying over to the men ringed around him with barely veiled disdain before he seemed to collect himself. Rolling his neck from side to side like a boxer readying for a match as he clapped his hands together and made to speak.

"But now, on to business I think…"


	10. Chapter 10

His hackles went up; the muscles in his back tensing and releasing as Manning leaned in. He stiffened on instinct as the man's fetid breath ghosted across his clammy skin. Teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep his face blank as the agent towered over him. His thick fingers drumming across the surface of the table as intense, bloodshot green fastened on his face.

The silence stretched, tense and seemingly limitless as the dry rasp of fabric meeting fabric grated in the close space. Marking the way the men behind him shifted and paced. Their gate uneasy and forced as he refused to react, spine arching as the air stirred in their wake.

His fingers brushed across the surface of his filthy jeans, running along his thighs as he tried to smooth the blood hardened fabric. The calloused pads catching on the rips and snags before he clenched them into tight fists; muscles jumping underneath the skin as he fought to keep still.

Because he suddenly had the insane urge to throw the man's words back in his face and refuse to answer on sheer principal alone. Too sit and watch as the man's composure crumbled, dissolving just like it had before until all the ugly little truths came tumbling out. – And all else considered, it took more effort than he would have thought to temper it.

"Let's start with something simple, shall we?" Manning began, rubbing his hands together as his eyes flickered down the length of him. "Where were you when this all went down?" the man asked, "And no, I don't mean the news reports or the rumors, I mean the first time... The moment where it all became real," Manning demanded.

"Why do you care?" he countered, taking a measured swig of water as his legs began to tremble, exhausted from the effort of sitting up straight for so long as he struggled to keep his face perfectly blank.

"Call it intellectual curiosity." Manning replied easily.

He raised a brow, but finished his water before replying. "Home, a couple hundred miles or so from here, give or take," he grunted, flicking a cracker crumb across the table as he gathered his thoughts and continued.

"I'd heard the reports, been following them on the news for weeks. But hadn't put much stock in them until what happened in New York," he replied, hesitating slightly over the name as images of burning buildings and detonated bridges reeled through his memory like microfilm on high speed.

He swallowed hard as flashes of the news broadcasts flickered across his minds eye. Remembering how he'd sat, frozen on the edge of his worn leather couch, watching the cameras jolt. Nearly choking on his mouthful of Johnny Walker Blue as the camera's focus blurred, panning out automatically as the camera man lost his balance. Moving with the crush of people until it tilted, whirling crazily over a crowded city street just in time to catch the grand finale. With blood and dirt splattering across the lens as the smartly dressed reporter that had been trying to make herself heard above the fray suddenly disappeared underneath a milling sea of torn fabric and gaping mouths.

But worst of all, he remembered how her high pitched screams had continued on long after she'd disappeared. Rising and falling until they were eventually drowned out by a deafening chorus of eager groans and the distant sound of bombs falling.

That was the day it had all become real, the day the virus had gained a human face. He would remember her face until the day he died, that much he was sure of. She had been a woman with dirty blond highlights, chubby dimples, and a freckled nose.

She'd had a ring on her ring finger, blue eyes, and a Mexican name, a woman whom he'd never met, nor likely would have ever cared too. But he knew she'd never completely leave his thoughts.

Because it was due to her that he'd set down that bottle of booze and gunned his truck all the way into town. Maxing out the only credit card he had on food, guns, and ammo. Stocking his cellar and shoring up the farm before he'd finally pulled his head out of his ass and called Merle. Not stopping until he'd found him over a hundred miles away, practically sweating out a bottle of eighty proof at ten in the morning in some backwater bar in the middle of fucking no where. He'd dragged him home himself and kept him there till he sobered up, bullying Merle into staying close as the TV started broadcasting the beginning of the end.

And just in time too, because it was only a week after the last broadcast out of New York that they had their first death. When old man Longston had staggered into a packed meeting at town hall, holding a bloody dish cloth against the jagged stumps where his fingers used to be, screaming about his son and god's final judgement before collapsing against the podium in a dead faint. He'd died in the clinic four hours later and had come back in the middle of Doctor Goldfern's autopsy. Taking a chunk right out of the poor bastard's neck before the doctor that had delivered both him and Merle on the day of their births could even so much as call for help.

Naturally, everything had pretty much devolved from there on in. One becomes two; two becomes three, and so on. A town of two thousand completely overrun in less than five days.

Manning made a surprisingly sympathetic noise and gestured for him to continue. Clicking his fingers pointedly until one of men that had been lounging near the main door hurried forward with another folding chair. Face wreathed with an encouraging smile as Manning nudged another bottle of water towards him.

Suspicion flooded through him like a wave of dry heat as the man took a seat, sitting directly across from him as he shared a look with one of the men standing behind him.

"But I'll bet you know all about that…" he challenged, eying the agent down from across the table as the man's badge flashed in the low light. They'd all heard rumors about New York. About what the government had done, but none of them had ever been proven, at least not before the televisions had gone down.

But Manning was saved from having to reply when the high pitched man piped up from the sidelines. "Why? What happened in New York?"

"What? Didn't you hear Kaminski? The army blew it up!" Green shirt replied with a grin. "…Boom…" he finished nastily, flinging his hands above his head for emphasis as he rounded the chair and came into view.

"What? Like Atlanta?" A different man asked, a slight freckled little thing with honey brown highlights as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd, "I had family staying in Manhattan," he explained when Manning gave him a hard look.

"Not fucking likely," Green shirt snorted. "New York was a cluster fuck, a mistake. The people in charge got jumpy. They panicked," he replied.

"They blew their load early, evacuated all the higher ups. The officials, government, military, rich folk, then blew up all the bridges and tunnels leading out of Manhattan behind them. They left the poor fuckers to fend for themselves long before the city had really fallen," Green shirt continued.

"The bombs that came afterwards were just for show, the government cleaning up their mess, again. There probably wasn't a soul left alive in that god forsaken place when the order finally came. Course no one's talkin' about it. It was all hushed up you see. Conveniently forgotten when the rest of the country started swirling down the shitter." Green shirt finished gleefully, nudging the man standing beside him like he'd just rattled off the punch line of some off-color joke.

"That's quite enough conjecture, thank you gentlemen," Manning butted in, voice unaccustomedly hard as his fist came down on the table with a muted thud. "I'd prefer if we stayed on topic for now on, if you don't mind."

"What do you know about New York, Manning?" He bit out. Not content to let this one go as he jumped on the first question that came to mind. He'd watched the man's face through the entire exchange, and he'd seen more than he needed to become suspicious. The man was hiding something and he planned to know what.

"Very little…" Manning gritted his annoyance clear as a buzz of conversation rose up behind him. "The city was better equipped than most. It was one of the first cities to receive federal and military assistance. Our department lost contact with them as we traveled down from Boston. By the time we'd arrived in Atlanta it was all over. They'd obviously gotten overrun and someone had made the call," Manning replied, fingers clenching around his badge spasmodically as he stared him down from across the table.

Hell, did this douche think he was born yesterday or what?

"You're lying." He hissed quietly. "This lot might be impressed by your side stepping and fancy words. But like you said before, I'm different." He replied, gesturing at the others with a careless flick of his hand as he threw the man's words back in his face.

"I think you might be forgetting who is in charge here, Mr. Dixon… I don't take kindly to-" Manning began, meticulously clean looking hands curling into tight fists when he cut him off.

"Power and control are all relative terms hoss. But then again you should know that, considering what you used to do for a living," he interrupted, struggling to maintain the upper hand, speaking right over him as Manning tried to get a word in edge wise.

"Look man, you've played your hand. You ganked me for your little bait and switch and now you're waiting for my group to make the next move," he said, fighting the urge to rise up from the chair and face the man properly as he forced himself to still.

"Now I don't know the details of your little scheme. I don't know what you really want, or even what you think you are going to gain out of this. And you know what? I don't give a shit," he challenged, tone level but promising violence as the high pitched man and green shirt took a few steps backwards as he suddenly straightened. Leaning forward as he met Manning's gaze and held it.

"Keep playing your mind games if you want to. Hell, maybe you even get off on it. I don't know, and I certainly don't care. But don't pretend to think that I'm stupid enough not to see right through you. If you have something to ask me, then come out and say it! I'm done gettin' jerked around!" he growled.

At first, he was sure that Manning was going to clock him. But he didn't. Part of him almost wished he would. - For him violence…action had always come easy, easier than words ever had. So even if he was hopelessly out numbered, half starved and probably a bit too far into the red than even he was strictly comfortable with, part of him yearned for the simplicity of it.

Christ, he'd be lying if he hadn't dreamt about slamming the slick prick up against the wall. Holding him up with nothing but his forearm and all the strength he could muster. His hand curled around the asshole's windpipe as he watched the light in those manic, green eyes slowly go out.

…He would be doing the world a favor, that much he knew for certain…

But Manning was too smart for that. Besides, the man was keeping his distance, at least for the most part. The fed didn't trust him anymore than he trusted Manning. So as a result he couldn't do a god damned thing. Forced to simply watch and wait as a whole range of emotions filtered across the man's smooth features.

"Very well Mr. Dixon. We'll do it your way." Manning said softly. Voice tightly reined, cut off and brittle, like the man himself was five seconds away from snapping.

"I want to know how many people you have in your group; their ages and genders. I also want to know how many weapons your group has. Ammo, cars, gas, what kind of livestock the old man keeps, and whatever else you feel I should know about." Manning hissed, tone aggressive and demanding as he leaned in, palms flat on the table as all the air seemed to leave the room in a single, all encompassing rush.

He blinked. Heart pounding in his chest as days of tension finally boiled down to one simple little sentence, the real reason he was here. Because they didn't want him, hell, they probably didn't even want whatever they'd demanded for ransom either. No, they wanted it all, the farm, their food, guns, supplies, and worse? The women…

Anger bubbled white hot and close to the surface as thoughts of Andrea, Carol, Lori, Patricia, and especially the young Green sisters flashed through his mind. He should have fucking known. Hell, six women in a post apocalyptic world? Might as well be ringing the fucking dinner bell as far as some men would be concerned.

"You've been to the farm, you tell me." He finally retorted, unsticking his jaw and steadying himself as the group of men ringed out behind him shifted restlessly.

"You deaf or just stupid boy?" Green shirt suddenly snapped, hoot heels clicking across the dirty ceramic as he came around from behind his chair, "he asked you a question, and you best answer it!" he hissed, bitch slapping him hard across the face with the flat of his palm before he could even formulate a response. The vicious crack of skin meeting skin echoing in the eves as he neck cracked in time.

Pussy.

He spat out a mouthful of blood and saliva before he shook himself. Calves pulling uselessly at his restraints as green shirt paced in front of him like a caged animal at the zoo. Gate forced and agitated as Manning gestured for two of the men standing behind him to remove the table. Leaving him without a shield as his eyes flicked from green shirt to Manning, trying to anticipate their next move.

"You've got yourself a nice little set up over there; women, cars, supplies, a sizable group with weapons. Anything else we should know about, trailer trash? You're lookin' a bit too healthy and well fed for my tastes boy... What else have you got over there? What are you hiding?" Green shirt questioned, tall frame bent double in order to look him in the eye as he spat out questions like spent shotgun shells.

"Yeah, it's only polite that you share," Kaminski cackled, voice still high pitched and grating as he laughed nervously. Tittering in the background as the group of men inched closer.

"A man's got needs after all..." another one added, all false deference and cracking accents as a thick pair of hands dug into the back of his chair, bare knuckles brushing across the small of his back like an unvoiced threat.

And just like that, just like in the CDC's in who knows how many countries, something dark and half shadowed set the air on fire, napalming everything until he was left with only the words themselves. Unable to do anything else but refuse to accept the hand fate at just dealt as the man's words echoed inside his head. - Resounding tinnly, like that strange, high pitched whine that sounds out just before your hearing mutes, thrumming out like a swan song as yet another frequency goes silent.

His teeth ground together as Manning's teeth flashed, glinting wolfishly in the high afternoon sun as the man's lips pulled back in a nasty, fleeting little smile. Heart beat thudding in his ears as he saw the confirmation of everything he'd tried to tell himself he hadn't suspected from the very beginning in that one, terrible glance.

No…


	11. Chapter 11

It was like something in his mind just switched off, rendered muted and useless in the wake of the man's words. He didn't react; he couldn't, struck by the realization that this was so much worse than he'd originally feared. He'd thought these men were murders and thieves at the worst, men without morals or scruples. But he'd thought they wouldn't…no, he'd hoped that they wouldn't stoop this far.

But he'd been wrong. Fuck, he should have known better!

He thought quickly, mind whirling as he tried to ignore the sluggish hammering of his own pulse. They'd found the farm, that much was said and done. And if they'd seen him before that meant they'd been in the area for at least a few weeks, if not longer.

They were scammers, scavengers, and predators. Just like the ones Randall had rolled with. Hell, maybe even the same god damned ones. They sure as hell seemed to fit the bill from what the kid had told him. But even if they were, they wouldn't attack the farm outright.

No, they'd been waiting to get one of them alone. He'd bet his best bolt that was how this little game worked. They took one to entice the rest, playing on group ties and morality. Getting them where they wanted, when they wanted. They were too low in numbers and supplies to be playing it any other way.

But what was clear was that this was different from the usual heist. They were gunning for the farm in a big way. Manning had his eye on it for some reason and didn't seem keen to let it go. - Probably for the same reasons they all had after the doc had fixed up Grimes' kid. When they'd come to realize exactly what they were passing up if they just up and left. A safe place, a haven; somewhere the disease had barely touched. …Yet.

And while he had no assumptions as to how long that safety might last, he wasn't about to give it up for the likes of Manning and his crew. He had to find a way to stall them. Give Rick and the others some time to figure this shit out.

Think Dixon!

"And what do I get in return if I tell you what you want to know?" He finally replied, pretending to be interested in Manning's proposal despite the fact that it felt a whole lot like swallowing a mouthful of glass.

But Manning only smiled. The action disquieting in its insincerity as he took him in, favoring him with a long, measuring sort of glance that made his skin crawl. - Pausing for a long moment before he dragged his chair closer and sprawled across it in a fit of easy grace. But the action came out forced, striking him as over rehearsed, ill-timed, and useless in a way that rendered the action moot.

Manning's theatrics might fool his men, but not him. Not anymore.

"You'll find, Mr. Dixon, that I have no patience for fools. And even less for people who waste my time." Manning gritted, words slipping from his lips with all the temerity of lead weights, clearly seeing through him despite his best efforts as his men drew their guns.

"Could'a fooled me." He returned. Gesturing back at the men him without even so much as a backwards glance, determined to hold his ground.

The man huffed out a laugh at that, scuffing the perfectly polished toe of his leather shoe across the floor as he ran his fingers through his curly salt and pepper hair. Opening his mouth to speak for a long moment before he closed it again, seemingly at a loss for words as the room went deathly still.

He swallowed, hard. Watching Manning out of the corner of his eye as he straightened as much as the restraints would allow. Already wondering if he'd pushed the jackass too far as he racked his brains for something to say. Something to distract the man long enough for Manning to remember why he needed him.

"Let's cut the crap shall we?" he suddenly began, flying by the seat of his pants on this one as he clung to the first train of thought that didn't seem completely suicidal. His voice harsh and defiant as his carefully held restraint started to unravel. Fed up of all of Manning's mind games and screwing around as he gave his temper full rein.

"You and I both know that I aint gunna tell you nothing,'" he growled, "just the same as you and I both know that you were never really planning on letting me go." He hissed, relishing in the moment as he watched Manning's back stiffen.

"I think you underestimate me Dixon…" Manning hoarsely, voice no more than a whisper as his fingers dug into the meat of his thighs. Crushing the freshly pressed pin stripes as a nervous tic twitched in his left cheek.

Now a foolish man might think that such a reaction meant that he had the man on the ropes. But he knew better. Manning wasn't the type to go down without a fight, mentally or physically.

"Do I?" he shot back, "I've dealt with men like you before. Hell, I've even lived part of my life with a couple. And do you know what I've learned? You shit stains are all the same! Big talk, brutal fists, and tempers to match, but deep down? You're all cowards. …Takers." He began, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he drew a shaky breath and continued.

"…Parasites hiding behind fancy words and fake causes. Believe what you want Manning, lie to yourself if it makes you feel better. But you and I both know what you really are, nothing. You've got nothing worth fighting for, nothin' worth protecting, so you take everything from everyone you meet. But at the end of the day what do you have Manning?" He mocked, meeting Manning's gaze and keeping it as he stared the man down, not even flinching when the taller man leapt to his feet. Green eyes flashing as his fingers curled around his badge, griping his belt loops so hard the fabric creaked.

"…Empty words and empty loyalties? Sure, what you take from others might fill your belly; keep your vehicles runnin' for another week or two. But in the end you and I both know that 'aint enough anymore. Not these days. And that's why I won't tell you shit. Not about them. Not even about the fucking farm. …Because they are worth more to me any of your god damn promises!" He spat, throat convulsing as he practically yelled the last few words. Chest heaving as his fought down the urge to cough as his lungs rebelled, suddenly feeling the full weight of the past few days as he slumped back in his chair.

He turned his head to the side and spat, mouth slick with his own blood as he forced himself to swallow the rest. Swearing he could feel it curdling all the way down his throat. He grimaced, because all else considered, he was getting really fucking tired of swallowing his own fluids.

…For Christ sakes.

"Those are some rather… inspired words for a man like yourself, Mr. Dixon. But then I suppose you were a scholar in another life hmmm? Or perhaps some grass roots upstart that dreamt of revolution and such sentiments as brotherhood and love concurs all?" Manning mocked; finding his voice as he dusted off his hands in feigned disgust. Voice light but limbs painfully tense.

But he just cocked a brow, interested in spite of himself as he realized that the man was stalling. But stalling for what? Time? The perfect punch line? Or had his words finally hit a little too close to home?

"But since you've had your say, I might as well have mine." Manning continued, tapping a finger against his lips bemusedly. Pausing for a long, disarming moment before catching him by surprise and swooped down on him, getting right in his face as his hands slammed down across his wrists. - Tightening around them like steel clamps until he was gnawing on the inside of his lips in an effort not to cry out.

"Some day I am going to hold you accountable for your words friend. So, I'd tread carefully from now on if I were you." Manning whispered. Speaking so low that only that only the two of them could hear before he deliberately tightened his grip on his wrists, apparently mindless of the oozing blood as the crusts of barely healed wounds broke open and the stench of fresh blood rose in the still air.

"Besides," Manning replied, lurching away from the table and speaking loud enough for the entire room to hear. "All animals respond to stimuli, Mr. Dixon." He chucked darkly, tone gravel high and harsh. "It is only a matter of determining the right amount of leverage to exact…"

"I'll give you some time to think about that." Manning hummed, bouncing on the balls of his feet with childish glee as he waved the men standing behind his chair forward. Waiting until close to a dozen men were ringed around him before he continued.

"…Because I can promise you now that the next time we talk, I'm not going to be so gracious..." He continued, waving them off as the men undid his chains and dragged him off the chair. Man handling him across the room and towards the double doors that led back to the room they'd been holding him in.

He only caught glimpses of Manning through the fray, struggling and lashing out as they pulled him across the threshold. The man was still standing where he'd left him, perched over his abandoned chair like a vulture in mid pounce. Dark and mottled, yet absurdly graceful as the man planned his next move, viewing the scene like a chess player considering his next move, exact but calculating as the man that remained started to chuckle. Like his struggles and curses were more like an amusement then any real threat.

"Oh, and Johnson? Be sure to gag our guest before you leave. We don't want him attracting any untoward company, now do we?" Manning called, speaking over the growing chorus of laughter with a decidedly airy tone, like he was no more deserving of notice than a particularly stubborn clod of dirt on his shoe.

He fought tooth and nail all the way back to the room where they'd been keeping him. Not regretting it one bit even when one of the men stomped on his fingers as they dragged him to his feet. - Feeling more than hearing the dry snap of his fingers breaking. Ground unmercifully onto the cool ceramic as the thug only chuckled in response. Flicking his nose with his thumb and forefinger tauntingly as they hooked him back onto the chain and left him alone, slamming the door behind them.

It was only after the sound of their footfalls had faded that he allowed himself to let go of a half strangled sob. Bloody cheeks becoming muted rivers of red as a handful of angry tears leaked past his tightly closed lids.

Christ, he was so fucked…


	12. Chapter 12

After that Manning started visiting him every few hours or so, or at least he figured it was every few hours. Sometimes it felt like days, others merely a few moments apart. And for the most part the conversations were always the same. How many people did they have? How many women? The number of guns and the amount of supplies they'd amassed for the winter? The list went on and on. And as conscious thought had dipped and swayed, blinking in and out of awareness like a busted radio, he had to admit that he'd eventually lost track.

Either way he figured it didn't matter. He wasn't going to give them what they wanted. He wasn't going to-… But soon enough thoughts became elusive, tricky. He started falling asleep in between sessions or forgetting his train of thought entirely. All in all he tried not to think about it.

Instead he started wondering what the others were doing. Wondering if they were coming for him or if they'd even gotten Manning's message at all. He wondered if Shane had finally cracked and gone bugnut crazy on them all, or if Randal had managed to give the city slickers the slip. He wondered if Carol and Patricia had ever managed to make that peach cobbler they'd been talking about the morning he and Glenn had left to go hunting. - He hadn't admitted it at the time but he'd been lookin' forward to that. He loved cobbler; in fact, he used to nip off the crusts when his Mama wasn't looking. Then blame Merle when she went on the war path. She never did believe him o'course, but then again, she'd never hid the pastries from him either.

She'd been a good woman his Ma, more than his old man had deserved at any rate.

But Manning and his men kept on pressing, worryin' the issue like a dog gnawing on a cattle bone; insistent and brutal. In the end, he only started remember the memorable times. The times when they'd tried to bait him with water and bits of food, tempting him just enough to make him crave it. And others, where they'd filled the room with lanterns and candles, making sure that the room shined like the inside of a sun's corona. Ensuring that he'd get no rest in between interrogations. - He'd been relatively impressed with that stunt. There was only so long a man could go without sleep. Only so much a man could take before he crumbled. Strong willed or not, that was just a cold hard fact.

Manning certainly didn't fuck around, that much was for certain.

He'd never put much stock in torture. Not that he had much experience giving or taking it mind you. But at the end of the day he didn't consider it to be an accurate way of getting information. Sure, at a certain point any man will talk. There are limits, after all, to what the human body can ensure. But will that information be true? Or simply what you want to hear? If you don't have a person's loyalty how can you be sure it is true? How can you be sure that what you get isn't just the insane babblings of a broken man who would do anything…say anything just to make the pain stop?

But apparently Manning was of a different opinion.

He remembered the last time, or maybe it was the last few times…he couldn't quite remember, where Kaminski and green shirt had come instead. He'd actually come to look forward to their visits, because unlike Manning, they were honest. They didn't talk circles or beat around the bush like Manning did. Trying to wheedle and coax the answers out of you like an orange stuck on a juicer, squeezing out every last bit of information until you were eventually tossed aside, useless and spent.

"You think your people are coming for you, boy? Don't you think if they were, they would have come by now?" Green shirt had spat on one occasion, sporting sleep crusted lashes and a missing front tooth.

Had he done that?

"Yeah, do you really think they give a rat's ass about you?" Kaminski had echoed, backhanding him across the face without warning when he remained silent. Feeling his lip split under the force of the blow as his head snapped back. The bulk of his weight falling on his ruined shoulders as consciousness proved difficult to maintain.

And call him suicidal, but he'd waited until the man had danced within range before he spat that mouthful of blood right in the stumpy little bastard's face. - He'd gotten a knee in the stomach for that one, but the look on the man's face had been more than worth it.

But the words had continued, and somehow Manning knew it all. Every insecurity, every doubt, fear, and embarrassment was pulled into the light as Manning did his best to break him. Any other time he would have snarled, thrashing about like a wild cat and spitting obscenities. But this time he said nothing. Remaining silent as they raged and ranted. Exposing him to every uncertainty and self doubt he'd ever chanced to face. Calling him worthless and alone, a dead man walking that no one would either miss or mourn. But still he remained silent. Head up and proud in spite it all, gritting his teeth as he held onto consciousness by a hair. Willing himself to simply hang there and take it as Manning and his men rapidly lost patience.

Because he'd meant what he said. He wasn't going to tell Manning and his crew anything. Not for all the bottled water and promises of freedom in the world. The man could go to hell as far as he was concerned. Heck, he probably had a seat reserved for him in the pit by the devil himself if he wasn't mistaken.

All else considered, they were at least half right. If Rick had ever intended to rescue him, he would have tried by now. No one was coming for him. – But so be it, it wasn't like that changed anything. He wouldn't be the one to betray their trust.

But somewhat predictably, they didn't take his silence very well.

He woke up halfway down the hall, body sliding across the dusty tiles as two men he didn't recognized dragged him by the chain attached to his bound hands. He blinked, blood shot eyes catching the tail end of a disembodied candle bobbing past them. Standing out like a beacon in the darkness of the hall as they passed the main room, aiming for another set of doors he hadn't noticed until now.

Well, that couldn't be good.

And, not so surprisingly, it wasn't. He was dragged into a large auditorium. Like the ones you see in those big hotel chains, specifically geared for conferences and low budget plays, with the rows of seats and a big center stage. Only now most of the chairs were stacked on the other side of the room, squashed into the corners with a bunch of those grungy desk and chair combinations they insisted on stuffing in middle schools during the past few decades.

The room was barely lit, haloed with the glow of only a few candles and one of those spotty crank lanterns that were all the rage a few years back. And just like you might expect, Manning was right there. Smack daub in the middle of center stage, tapping his feet impatiently from his seat beside a low table as they dragged him across the room and up the steps. Dumping him at Manning's feet with a vicious shove.

Manning had clearly decided that it was time to change tactics.

His muscles coiled as the polished points of Manning's shoes twitched in place, pausing only inches from his face as he looked up, too damn tired to even try and get to his feet. Not this time at least. The pain in his shoulders nearly unmanned him, throbbing up from the muscle and bone as his head hung low between his shoulders. Feeling the worrisome ache in his chest and the dull splinters of pain coursing down from his head and hand every time he moved.

Fuck, he was a mess…

"I trust that the past few days have been…enlightening, Mr. Dixon?" Manning crooned, setting a glass of something down on the table before he rose in mock greeting.

He blinked. Days? Damnit! How long had he been here?

The sole of Manning's boot caught him square in the gut in a vicious kick that sent him tumbling off the stage. The force of the blow drove the air from his lungs and slammed his head against the floor as he landed. And for a long moment, he just stayed there. – It had come hard, fast, and completely out of the blue. He hadn't been prepared; he hadn't even had a chance to-…

His vision shuddered, forcing him to bite down on the inside of his cheek as he chanced a cautious breath. He'd felt something in his chest creak when the man's boot heel had slammed into his rib cage. And he wasn't about to discount more than a few broken ribs at this point. Especially given the fact that all it took was one rib, broken in just the right place to puncture a lung.

Shit…

He made a sound that was all vowels. Edgy and rough with the hint of barely loosened phlegm and internal bleeding. Throat burning as a mish-mash of pain stripped syllables trickled out, bubbling up just like the rivulets of copper tinted salt that had begun streaming down his throat from where he'd bitten his tongue. - But he didn't spit it out. He swallowed it. If only to see Manning's lip curl as he peered over the edge of the stage.

"I asked you a question Mr. Dixon; it's only polite that you give me an answer." Manning demanded, settling back down into his chair with a self satisfied air as the men dragged him back up the steps and retreated back into the shadows. Giving the allusion of privacy and vulnerability where there was little of either.

They wanted him to try. They wanted him to give them an excuse...

"I'm impressed Manning, I didn't think you did your own dirty work." He finally rasped, bound hands pressed against his rib cage as he forced himself to uncurl. Inching a few centimeters away from him as Manning inspected his shoe carefully.

"What can I say?" Manning smirked. "You bring out the worst in me." He replied, leaning back in his chair and swirling the remaining contents of his glass counter clockwise before he took an appreciative sip.

"This is the final time I am going to ask you this question Mr. Dixon, so answer me carefully. Tell me what I want to know and this all ends." Manning demanded.

"…And what? Confess my sins to the likes of you, padre?" He mocked. "No thanks hoss. If there is a god, I'd prefer to meet him on my own terms." He grunted, nearly choking on his own spit as his throat convulsed in mid swallow. Sending string of spittle trickling down his chin as he raised his head and looked Manning right in the eye.

"But let me tell you something Manning. You better hope to all that is holy that I don't end up in hell along with you. Otherwise you and I are going to have a lot to discuss and all the time in the world in which to do it." He vowed. Hissing through his teeth as blood welled up in the back of his throat, frothy and spotted with grit as he inhaled the dust and dirt that littered the stage floor.

"…Feisty." Manning muttered. "Admirable sentiments, Mr. Dixon, as always… But tell me, does your 'Lone Ranger routine' ever get a bit wearing?" Manning began, his tone amicable, but laced with the beginnings of an explosive temper as the man clicked his tongue. Letting the sound echo in lieu of his reply when he remained silent.

"As I told you before, I consider myself to be an exceptionally good judge of character. Simply put, I know what makes people tick, I know they think. I can tell what one man might excel at, while another would fail. I can even pick out that one person in a crowd of hundreds that is five seconds away from blowing the entire room sky high. But I must confess a certain… shall we say difficulty in reading you Mr. Dixon." Manning allowed, crossing his legs primly before taking another measured sip.

"Can you tell me why that is?" Manning asked, lips quirking like he was flirting with the hint of a smile before he set his glass down and leaned forward.

"I have been watching you Mr. Dixon. And after our first meeting I thought I had you figured out. I took you for a sloppy, back country hick with a chip on his shoulder. A young man with mommy issues, daddy issues, and probably even an older brother that used to beat on you some. The result of bad breeding and an even worse upbringing …Classic really." Manning chuckled. "Hell, that kind of sob story is probably a dime a dozen around here." He hummed.

"But then, well, I'll admit you surprised me." The agent continued. "You might not believe it Mr. Dixon, but men like you are in short supply these days. Over the past few months I've played host to fathers and mothers that have caved under far less pressure than you, husbands and boyfriends that have joined us knowing full well the nature of our little business, simply to ensure their own safety. But not you…" Manning breathed, shaking his head minutely before he drained his glass in one go, hissing at the burn as he reached for the nearly empty bottle of scotch that had been hidden behind the lantern.

But in the middle of refilling his glass, Manning sighed, setting the bottle down with an audible clunk. Face half shadowed in the low light as he turned around to face him.

"The truth of the matter is that I have something to tell you. Whether you choose to believe it is up to you. But I will leave that to your discretion." Manning began. Running a hand across his face and back through his greying curls before leaning down to meet his glare.

Odd…This wasn't Manning's usual style... What did the little snake have up his sleeve this time?

"The point is that I don't really need you anymore, Mr. Dixon. You see, your friends left this morning..." Manning began, fingers drumming across his thighs before he shook his head and continued.

"Everyone, even the old man and those three women of his, they packed their vehicles and left. Even drained the gas out of that old road hog I'm betting was yours before they left." Manning continued. Green eyes flickering across his face as his expression went hard, meeting his eyes as he stared up at him from his position on the floor, his mind worrisomely blank as he forced himself to glare back.

"They headed north, in the direction of Fort Benning I believe. Last I heard it was one of the last military outposts not yet over run. …Smart move." Manning murmured sarcastically. "I am sure that only a few hundred other people had the same god damned idea." He continued, rolling his eyes and kicking back in his chair in obvious frustration.

Funny, the man actually seemed like he was telling the truth for once… That he was angry about losing a score…

"I have to admit that I didn't see that one coming. God knows how much of the supplies they were able to take with them. I have to say I am rather… put out about the whole thing. Had I suspected they would run I would have risked an outright assault days ago. Better that than risk them taking off with the bulk of the supplies." Manning gritted, hands curling up into angry fists before he forced them to unfurl.

…No. They wouldn't… Rick wouldn't-

"You understand what I am saying don't you?" Manning snapped, his words harsh and angry as he towered over him. "They're gone Mr. Dixon, and they've left you here…"


	13. Chapter 13

He swallowed thickly, suddenly grateful for the darkness as his lips twisted. And for a long moment there was nothing. No sound. No thought. No action. He was frozen, caught in a sinkhole of his own making as something in the back of his brain just fucking keened.

The sound was low, a slow rolling base that licked at the edges of his conscious mind like that of arousal and fear. But it didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before; it was animalistic and downright feral. Something that sent goose pimples pricking across his blood stained skin as the echoes rebounded. Bowling him over until he was all but drowning in his own sound, bound hands scrabbling across the cheap carpeting, searching in vain for a hand hold that was simply not there as the echoes only grew.

Rick wouldn't… He'd-

He forced his breathing to even, coughing roughly as his bruised lungs struggled to keep up. His fingers trembled, nails digging into the carpet as adrenaline shot through his ruined veins. Coursing through his system like venom dripping into an open wound, mind shot to shit and running scared as he tried to pull himself together.

He had to think of a way to salvage this situation and fast.

His first instinct was to scream foul. To lash out and insist that Manning was lying, that it was all a ruse, a fabrication fashioned by the man himself to inevitably break him and win his favor. But at the same time a small, niggling little tendril of doubt also made its debut. Reminding him that Rick had his family and the group to think about now. And that at the end of the day, the old adage of sacrificing the one for the many still held sway.

Shit…

His chest squeezed tight, hindering his breathing as he sucked in a ragged breath. Betrayal is a complex emotion, something that is felt more than it is expressed, especially if you aren't completely sure if you've even been betrayed in the first place. - Because if Rick and the others had left, and things had gone down the way he figured they might have, it wasn't really a betrayal at all. It was a tough call, but the right one. Rick had a group to protect, people he'd promised to keep safe. Leaving him behind ensured that survival of them all, plain and simple.

But lord, if that wasn't a small comfort he didn't know what was…

He shook his head, eyes stinging as sweat trickled down from his temple, slicking his forehead as he wiped his face on the filthy shoulder of his shirt. 'Damnit! Man up Dixon!' He seethed, suddenly furious with himself as his throat tightened, pulse beating in his ears as he swayed in place. Forcing himself to rise to his knees as Manning leaned back in his chair with a grateful sigh.

He blinked, letting his tongue run across his lower lip as he felt the world tilt on its axis. Knees threatening to give out from under him like he was ten seconds away from suffocating in his own skin. - He squinted into the gloom as his vision went murky; almost as though he was looking through a pane of warped glass as he wavered. Jerking himself upright as his body corrected the motion just before he toppled over.

Christ, he was so fucked.

He wasn't sure if he was having a heart attack or about to pass out. But he felt almost as though if he leaned back far enough, the rules of gravity would somehow bend. Sending him hurtling off into dead space, weightless and completely at the mercy of whatever deity was feeling particularly generous to his cause.

It wouldn't be too hard; all he would have to do would be to tip just a little bit to the left and-…

But the moment was broken when one of the men suddenly coughed. Shaking himself out of his daze just in time as he sensed more then saw Manning's head turn towards the sound. He used the moment to his advantage, digging his nails into his palms until they pierced the skin. Using the pain to center himself he gritted his teeth and straightened.

He couldn't seem to categorize the emotions that were coursing through him, prickling on the edge of his conscious mind with all the subtlety of a military tank on Main Street. Hacking through his carefully made defenses as raw hurt threatened to overwhelm him completely. - It was similar to anger, disappointment, and grief, yet somehow none of the above.

He didn't begrudge them their escape. In fact, he was glad of it. It made everything else that much simpler. Rick had made a judgement call. He knew he couldn't get him out, and he knew it wasn't safe for them to stay at the farm anymore. Hell, more than that, he was impressed. It seemed as though Grimes was finally learning how to stay alive after all.

If he'd had the energy he would have smiled at that. Who would have thought a city slicker could have come so far? Maybe there was hope for them all yet...

He looked up, deciding to gauge the situation by Manning's reaction. But he was surprised to find that Manning wasn't even looking at him, and for some unknown reason that made him feel even worse. Surely if the man was lying, he'd be eager to put him through the paces. Mocking his reactions and fueling any tantrums he might throw as he refused to believe what the man was telling him.

…Right?

Instead he found that the man had resumed filling his glass, fingers skating around the rim as he chased the last remaining drops with the pads of his fingers before licking them clean. Sighing in obvious contentment as he set the bottle aside and picked up his glass.

"I'd offer you some, but I doubt your stomach would thank you." Manning said, gesturing towards him with the glass before he chanced a sip, smacking his lips appreciatively as he let the potent liquid sit on his tongue for a long moment before swallowing.

"I am not going to insult you by claiming to sympathize, or coddle you with false words and promises. Believe it or not, by this point I respect you too much for that. Manning began.

"The truth is that you're in a bit of a delicate situation right now Mr. Dixon. After all, what good is the bait when the prize has already flown the coup?" Manning remarked, his tone surprisingly level, absent of its usual ego and haughty self righteousness as he swirled the contents of his glass thoughtfully.

"However, as it would seem, you're not completely without options." The man allowed. Smiling thinly as he motioned the two men that had brought him here up onto the stage.

"Fetch Mr. Dixon some water and a chair, and please ask Johnston and Yinon to join us. They should be in the fifth floor lookout in the bank across the street." He ordered, eyes following the two of them as they disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

Manning surprised him then, because as soon as they left, he swung around in his chair and pinned him with a look. Fixing him with a stare he could neither measure nor define before he cleared his throat and made to speak. Fiddling around with the collar of his green button up before he leaned down and tapped the chain still wrapped around his wrists. The action pointed and deliberate as the man's hand lingered, almost caressing the rusting metal before a noise in the hall made him pull away.

"Now, a wise man would hear these words and consider them carefully Mr. Dixon. I would advise you not to make any…hasty decisions you might come to regret before you've had the opportunity to fully consider my proposal." Manning began, pausing significantly as the agent watched him shift furiously from his position on the floor.

"A proposal?" he spat, "you kidnapped me, starved me, beat the shit out of me, and then hung me from a meat hook attached to your fucking ceiling," he snorted, pausing to look down as his wrists throbbed in agreement.

"...And what? Now you want me to become your business partner?" He asked sarcastically. "I am concussed, not stupid." He scoffed. Tone incredulous as he played the home advantage, letting Manning call the shots as he pulled at his bonds, discreetly checking for weaknesses in the ropes and chains as the man unfolded himself from his chair and paced across the length of the stage.

"I am sure you've had stranger offers," Manning replied, voice echoing in the empty room as he turned on his heel and started walking back. His long strides covering ground quickly as he retrieved his glass and leaned against the back of his chair. Face barely visible in the near light as the crank lantern dimmed, letting the candle light flirt with the angles of his face as the man sent him a mirthless smile.

"Besides, what I am about to offer you is practical. It is cold cut survival and nothing more. - Your friends abandoned you. They skipped town and left you holding the bill. But luckily you hold the cards to your own survival." Manning continued, fingers weaving together thoughtfully as he balanced the glass between his palms.

"You see Mr. Dixon; an even wiser man might consider asking why, if your friends left this morning that you only learned about it tonight?"

"See, hypothetically I could content myself with picking the farm clean and settling in for the winter. It's a decent place to winter, defensible, with enough room for at least half of my best men. However, I am not the type of man that settles for less than what I set out for." Manning intoned, taking a noisy slip from his glass before continuing.

"You see when your friends packed up and headed north, we knew about it within the hour. I've had lookouts posted in the area since we discovered it. And since then we have followed their progress down the freeway. They are taking the express way to Benning even now. But they're taking the main roads. I have men that know faster routes, back roads that aren't on any map and can get to Fort Benning in half the time. Hell, even less if you have the fuel to burn." Manning explained, saluting him roguishly with his glass as he rapped out an unsteady rhythm on the low table

"You understand what I am saying don't you, Mr. Dixon?"

The others... Fort Benning! Manning was planning an ambush!

"…You're planning on meeting them before they reach Fort Benning?" He grated, forcing his tone to even as his tongue rasped across the roof of his mouth, bone dry and painful.

"Good luck with that." He snorted, shifting minutely as his knees cracked in concert. Blinking rapidly as his brain tried to compensate for the dimming light. Mind exhausted and body even further gone then that as he forced himself to still, facing the man on his knees as his fingers clenched together. The stink of his own blood and piss almost enough to make him gag as he tried to breathe through his mouth.

"Ah, well, that is where your particular brand of…expertise comes into play." Manning began his voice halting as he seemed to stumble over his own tongue. "Simply give me the information I need about the farm and the convoy and I will cut you loose. One way or another, whether you chose to go or stay, our business here will be over. There will be no ill will between us and we can part as…two men who have made a mutually satisfying business arrangement." Manning replied, either mindless or completely blind to the way his eyes had narrowed. All but bristling with anger and disgust as his lip curled into a silent snarl.

Mutually satisfying business arrangement his ass!

He was about to open his mouth to delivery a scathing reply when Manning turned on his heel, crouching down so they were suddenly level with each other. His green eyes flashing as the agent pinned him down with a practiced glare.

"I would think carefully before responding Mr. Dixon." Manning growled, "like I said before, now is not the time for rash decisions. Considering your situation it would be in your best interest to-..."

Manning was about to say something more but trailed off when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the empty room. The sound strangely amplified by the room's natural acoustics as Manning set down his glass with a hasty clunk. - And for reasons beyond him, by the time the two guards, along with green shirt, Kaminski, and two others whom he could only assume were Johnston and Yinon, Manning was back in his chair; sipping at his glass of scotch like he'd never left.

The man was putting on a show… But not for him? Why?

"Gentlemen, thank you for joining us." Manning called, gesturing the six of them forward with a generous smile. "Yinon, Johnston, what do you have for me?" He asked.

"According to my contacts a few counties over, the convoy from the farm is still heading in the direction of Fort Benning. They lost two of the vehicles at the halfway point, ran out of fuel I think. Then they made camp at a rest stop at sundown. But everything it still in order, they're still traveling nearly opposite to the back roads, just as we-you predicted." One of the men replied nervously, a tall reedy looking thing with thick rimmed glasses and a faint French accent.

"Excellent." Manning hummed. "Kaminski, Levi?" Manning asked, calling the high pitched man and green shirt forward. "What about the farm? Any activity?" He questioned, tone clipped and to the point as he took a thoughtful sip from his glass.

"Nothin' boss, seems like they all cleared out. No tricks. It's probably safe to move in and check it out, want me to tell the boys to-." Kaminski piped up, but he was cut off when Manning spoke over him.

"No! Christ! How many times do I have to say this Kaminski? Remember Kansas?" Manning hissed, hands curling into fists as the man's spine stiffened like an angry tom cat. Tone enough to make all six of them take a collective step backwards as Manning muttered obscenities under his breath.

Kaminski just blanched.

For a long moment no one said anything. Or perhaps more pointedly, no one seemed to dare to say anything. Because judging from his cronies wide eyed expressions this was the first time they'd even seen the man so visible lose his temper. – And honestly? He didn't blame them. Because Manning, normally as cool as a cucumber and haughty to a fault actually looked pissed to hell, his countenance unfocused and angry as he tapped a finger against his glass in clear irritation.

Fuck, either the man deserved an Oscar, or Rick and the others really had flown the coop…

"So, this is what it comes down to Mr. Dixon." Manning began, taking a deep breath and visibly reining himself in as his fingers dug into the armrest of his chair, the upholstery creaking as he rolled his shoulders and met his gaze.

"Your friends are gone. But I am still here, and I want to offer you a deal. Work with me on this one and I will cut you loose." Manning began earnestly, "…Hell, if you want I am prepared to go even further than that. We could use a man like you in our ranks. A true survivor..." Manning continued, free hand smoothing down the length of his thigh before it came back up to adjust the position of his FEMA badge. Fingers ghosting around the gold and silver trim like a reminder as Kaminski leaned over and whispered something into green shirt's ear. Pudgy lips twisting into a sickening smile as green shirt sniggered in response.

"…What would I have to do?" He asked carefully, tone flat as he considered each and every word with the utmost care. Eyes flicking back at the men ringed just below the stage as Manning caught his glance.

"Well, for starters, I still need to know about the farm. I need to know what I can expect when I get there. Any traps they might have left behind as well as anything my men need to know for when they ambush the convoy the day after tomorrow. - The list goes on and on and etc." The man replied flippantly, extending his hand towards him like he was waiting for a handshake. Apparently oblivious to the fact that he was barely keeping himself upright, propped up on his knees on the thin carpeting, his hands still bound by the wrists.

"So? What about it Mr. Dixon? Do we have a deal?"


	14. Chapter 14

He stared. Manning stared back. The other six just fidgeted in place. Fussing like children at a family restaurant that was out of crayons and those colorable place-mats kids always seem to go ape shit over. Drawing until the cheap crayons dull down to nothing or snap in half before the little bastards can scribble away to their hearts content.

Doesn't much matter which one comes first, either way it always ends in tears.

Merle wouldn't have been in this position because within the first day of his kidnapping he would have either struck a deal with Manning or killed the lot of them with his bare hands. Keeping just enough of them alive to start over, this time with him as King Shit, continuing what Manning started. Because all else considered, Merle would have been right at home here.

But he wasn't Merle. He never had been. There had been a point in his life where he'd tried. But it hadn't lasted. He'd always been a sucker when it came to their Mama's soft, disappointed eyes and his own weak stomach. He hadn't been meant for that kind of life, and when it came down to it, he didn't want it either. He wasn't his brother or his father, he was better. And it'd taken him longer than it should have to realize it.

"Well? What is it going to be Mr. Dixon?" Manning huffed impatiently, clearly sensing he was being ignored as he looked away, directing his gaze up at the only window in the room. Catching the smallest sliver of the moon peek out from the clouds as Manning's hand tightened around his glass. Joints squeaking audibly as those absurdly clean looking fingers went white with the strain.

That was when Manning knew. And god, the moment was sweet.

Because in spite of the blood and the exhaustion, the broken bones and the growing weakness that was spreading through him like the returning ocean tide, he smiled. -It wasn't a nice smile. He didn't have to see it to know that much. It was all blood stained teeth and split lips that didn't work like they should have, with the expression coming out as more of a snarl than anything else, maybe a leer if you wanted to be generous. Completely vacant of any real amusement and warmth as he chuckled darkly, choking on his own blood and spit as he visibly shook, using the last of his strength just to remain on his knees as Manning's fake smile melted of his face like wax left next to an open flame.

Either way he thought the expression was remarkably appropriate. Manning had lost at his own game, with the home court advantage no less. Nothing could sting worse than that. – That and what he had to say next that is…

"…No."

That was all he said. No embellishments, no basking in the moment or rubbing his refusal in the man's perfectly constructed face. …Just no.

Manning's furious screams echoed down the hallway long after they dragged him out of the auditorium. Coming out in furious roars of sound that were quickly followed by the high pitched shatter of breaking glass and the ominous thud of a chair making contact with the auditorium wall.

FEMA obviously didn't take rejection well. Go figure.

This time they didn't even bother hanging him up, they just attached his chain to a metal loop hammered into the wall and left him there. Tossing him a bottle of water and a package of crackers before they slammed the door behind them, steps quick but hesitant as they hurried back towards the auditorium where Manning's curses and yells were still audible.

And god, it was fucking bliss compared to before. Because honestly, lying on the floor had never felt so nice…

He honestly thought Manning was going to kill him. Hell he'd even leaned against that cool, white washed wall and waited for it. But he didn't. Apparently he'd under estimated just how much Manning wanted…no, apparently needed that information.

It was a few hours later when Manning came for him. He recognized the man's footsteps halfway down the hall as those expensive leather shoes cut a path down the dusty floor. His stride long and fast as a flurry of awkwardly spaced footsteps stampeded behind him.

The man entered the room with an explosive bang, slamming the door against the wall with a vicious crack, already eying him down with an angry stare as he came to stop in front of him.

"You frustrate me Mr. Dixon. I am not an unreasonable man and yet, you try my patience." Manning chided, tone gentle and completely at odds with his entrance as he faced him down, tapping his foot impatiently.

He raised a brow at that, spreading his legs a little bit further for comfort as he let the chill from the wall seep into his back. The man's mood swings were going to give him fucking whiplash…

"I don't understand your refusal. I am offering to give you your life back, a chance to walk out of here alive. That is more than your so called friends did for you!" Manning wheedled, pacing in front of him as Kaminski and green shirt pushed to the forefront, standing just behind the man himself as the others fanned out behind them like some sort of fucked up honor guard on steroids.

The message was clear. Tell Manning what he wanted to know, or suffer the consequences. - You know, like somehow he hadn't been suffering from them this entire time.

"We are just doing what we have to too survive… You understand that don't you?" Manning purred, crouching down on his haunches until they were at eye level with each other as the man held up a bottle of water with an enticing air.

He curled his lip, but inside he was twisted. Because in spite of everything, he was suddenly reminded of a conversation not too long ago in the Green's parlor where a single man had stood up and begged for the life of another. For the life of another that was just as likely to do them harm than anything else, but a life nonetheless. Begging for the life of a man, a boy really, a twitchy little thing that barely had enough peach fuzz on his cheeks to be called a man.

His chest went vice tight. Like someone had reached in his chest and squeezed. He swallowed down a swirl of nausea as Dale's passionate plead resounded in his aching skull, the words so clear…so sure, that he actually turned to look. Staring at the empty wall beside him like he'd expected to see the old fart himself, leaning up against that white washed wall with that stupid bucket hat and fading Hawaiian shirt. Palming that old pocket watch of his as he stared him down with the same disappointed look he'd given them all in the Green's living room.

…Almost as if he was seeing them all for the very first time. Seeing them for what they were, rather than who he'd hoped they'd be…

His heart thudded in his chest as realization hit. Slamming down across his shoulders like a physical weight as his head tipped back. Eyes fluttering closed as his blood encrusted hair caught on the white washed brick. …Christ.

The others, Rick, Shane, and himself had all justified their decision like this. They had justified it as an act of survival, just like Manning was now, twisting the nature of the word itself not only to suit their purposes but their situation as well.

Christ, Dale had been right. There were limits. Lines you shouldn't cross. Even in the name of survival, even if it does save your skin. Because sometimes, the cost was just too damn high. That was what Dale had tried to warn them about, about the perils of losing themselves and their humanity through their own self serving justifications. - Where in the name of survival you inevitably lose a part of yourself. Something innate and precious, something you can never get back.

"Now, believe me son, I understand what you're doing. Stayin' true to your own and all. Hell, it's admirable even. Protecting your women, hell maybe one of those youngins is even your own. I get it." Manning crooned.

"…And understand that we don't mean anyone any harm, especially not the little ones." Manning paused, crouching down so he could look him in the eye, apparently mindless to the fact that he was now looking elsewhere. Eyes glued to that shadowed patch of wall off to his right, as if he could somehow will the older man to appear.

Fuck, he was delirious.

"But times have changed. Things are different now. A man's got to survive. Carve out a little piece of paradise for himself if you know what I'm saying." Manning continued, giving the others a small, assenting nod as they moved in behind him.

"Now the others, the men… well, they're in a world of shit, make no mistake. They'll make trouble. But you on the other hand, are clearly a man with your wits about you. Like us, you understand that the world has changed. That the rules have changed..." Manning hedged.

"If you join us you'd be doing your group a favor. You won't be able to save all of them, but the women? The children? Maybe even a few of the men if they prove to be cooperative and like-minded. You can ease them into our little community; act as a buffer as it were." Manning suggested, words spilling from his lips on fast forward as a thin sheen of sweat formed around his greying temples.

He could have growled. Liar…

Now he wasn't totally on board with Grimes' whole 'love thou fellow man and embrace in peace and love routine', but damn if he didn't want to upchuck the meager contents of his guts all over that asshole's blood smeared kicks. Fuck this shit. He'd rather take another beating than listen to this walking shit stain run his mouth! Why was it that some people took the end of the world as an excuse to renounce their own humanity?

Christ. They were worse than Merle.

He wasn't sure where he found the energy, but he planted his back against the wall and wobbled to his feet. Legs trembling as forced himself to stand. His movements were slow and pained as white hot anger and muted horror tinged his cheeks with red. Ignoring the furtive whispering and hushed arguments that broke out amongst the man's cronies as he raised his head and stood on level ground with Manning for the very first time.

"...Go fuck yourself." He spat, gut burning with disgust and barely suppressed horror as half shrouded images of what these men might do if they got their hands on the others flickered through his mind like wild fire.

On the farm, on the road, it didn't matter, it would be a massacre. And the women? Hershel's girls? Hell, they'd probably be better off dead by the time those guys were through with them. He'd been around Merle and his buddies long enough to know how the minds of men like this worked. And the results were never good.

"You insufferable, pig headed bastard!" Manning gritted, his cool, professional facade crumbling around him as the man balled his fists. All but vibrating with anger as the older man stalked forward.

"It is no wonder why they left you!" Manning snarled, losing it completely as he drove his fist straight into his gut before slamming another up in a vicious uppercut that caught him right in the kisser. Sending him crumpling to the floor as Manning rained down a series of kicks across his chest as he tried to protect himself the best he could. Pain searing down his veins and he cried out, protecting his face and neck with his bound hands until the room echoed with Manning's insane screams of rage.

But when Manning's hand curled around his throat, he panicked. Thrashing and flailing, he used his bound hands as a battering ram, thumped the man on the back as his fingers dug into the collar of man's dress shirt. Desperate to get free as he felt his throat constrict. Tendons straining just underneath the skin until Manning abruptly pulled away, leaving him bloody and desperate for air as he clutched at his throat on pure reflex.

And for a long, heart stopping moment, he forgot how to breathe, hiccuping into the quiet, suddenly deaf despite the flurry of movement all around him. Strangely conscious of the unsteady slush-slush of his pulse, as awareness spiraled in and out like the world's worst acid trip. Getting no warning whatsoever as he lurched forward and violently threw up what felt like everything he'd ever eaten in his entire life, all over himself and the blue checkered tiles.

He choked on the after taste as he gagged again and again. Body rebelling long after he had anything left to give as he slumped across the floor, trying and failing to pull himself up on all fours as long strings of blood flecked saliva dribbled down his chin as he spat again and again. Desperate to be rid of that acidic aftertaste as Manning and his cronies made noises of disgust behind him.

Pussies.

Sometime in between the blows and the nausea, Manning and his crew had backed up, whether that was to give him some air or to ensure that they didn't get any vomit on their shoes he wasn't exactly sure, but when he regained his breath and used his elbows to lever himself back up against the wall he found Manning staring down at him expectantly. As if the man simply expected him to start spewing out the answers he wanted after getting his ass kicked.

Man, this douche bag really hadn't even come up against at Dixon before, had he? He wasn't one to run his mouth, especially when the chips were down. He'd made his choice god damnit.

"Well…?" Manning demanded. Hands posed on his hips as he stared him down, fingers pointedly lingering near the clasp of his holster as he unclipped the snap and angled his hip towards him.

A damning trickle of blood and saliva dribbled down his chin as he spat out a mouthful of raw crimson, barely missing the man's over polished shoes as the liquid sprayed out like arterial splatter. He coughed raggedly, nearly choking on it as his ribcage creaked in sympathy. …God, everything hurt.

He pressed his bound hands against his chest; head nearly level with his knees as he tried to soothe the growing ache in his ribs. Trying in vain to ignore the way it felt like his bones were splintering every time he took a god damned breath. But in all that time he never took his eyes away from the man's face. Looking Manning straight in the eye even as the room spun and he dry heaved. Hiccuping weakly as his entire body jerked with the force of it. Skin pale and clammy as sweat dripped off his eye lashes.

But still, he didn't say a word.

Instead, he took great pleasure in seeing Manning's expression go from murderous to deathly pale. Blanching unexpectedly when his gaze remained steady, and whatever the man saw in his expression made him take a step backwards. Looking spooked and strangely fragile as a single rivulet of sweat trickled down from his salt and pepper curls.

Because far from feeling weak, in that moment he felt powerful, tipping on the edge between rage and ecstasy, uncontrolled and dangerous in all the right ways. - All but thrumming with enough nervous energy to out stun a fucking cattle prod as he stared Manning down, refusing to release the man's gaze even when the agent stumbled backwards.

In spite of it all, he'd never felt more alive. More…right. Like every moment of his god damned life had been leading up to this, to right here and right now. He was going to die. He knew that. But for the first time in his life, that knowledge came secondary to what he had right in front of him.

Because somewhere along the line it had stopped being about the pain and the injustice of his incarceration. Now it was about defiance…survival. Because, in the end, this wasn't about him, it was about them. The others back at the farm or out on the road… wherever they really were, this was for them.

Because unlike Manning and his crew he had something more… something better to fight for than himself. And if Rick and the others really had left, and Manning was dead set on going after them, the least he could do was buy them some time.

Besides, if there was anything left worth dying for in this world, he figured this was it.


	15. Chapter 15

The reaction in Manning was so strong that it transmuted physically, causing him to stumble backward. His proud posture subsiding into jerky motions and eyes that had suddenly turned inward, his features slack with incomprehension as he faced the man down from across the close distance. The rage and anger that had been fueling him suddenly abating as the older man seemed to shrink in size.

The others however were not so easily dissuaded. They didn't understand the intricacies of the moment, the subtle dealings that had occurred in between the words and blows. The seconds that had been weighed and measured as the fight for dominance had been both won and lost.

Manning had been defeated. Not physically, but mentally merely by his refusal. He knew it, and Manning knew it. They both understood that Manning could and indeed would pull the trigger. But the fact remained that Manning had lost. And he was poorer for it, weakened.

But his men didn't know that, at least not yet.

He wasn't sure if they were challenging Manning's authority or seeing it as their due to continue where their leader had left off, because as Manning's anger subsided the rest of them moved to the forefront. Their reaction only confirming his theory as Manning quickly judged the situation and patted Kaminski and green shirt on the back.

"He's all yours boys…" Manning allowed, clearly thinking quickly as he pretended to hand over the reins and simply watch how the rest played out.

Oh Manning was good, too good. He'd let the others take charge without them even realizing it, and in the end, his failures would be covered up and explained as theirs.

\- Damn, in a way you almost had to respect that kind of genius. It all came down to risk versus reward, and Manning had more to gain saving face with his men than he did capping him in the heart right then and there.

Gee, lucky him…

"No?" Kaminski echoed, his tone hard edged and bitter with sarcasm as he tossed his refusal back in his face. Pushing to the front of the pack with green shirt as the others fanned out behind them. Fidgeting restlessly like hounds that had scented blood on the wind.

He blinked. Oh, right, the others. He'd nearly forgotten about them. But he shouldn't have…that wasn't right... Why was he so-…

"You don't get to say no, trailer trash! You 'aint callin' the shots here!" Kaminski continued, voice edging towards that same irritatingly high pitched tone as the man wiped his sweaty face and cocked his gun like the action alone was going to scare him.

Amateur…

"I'll tell you how this is going to go down," Kaminski continued. Clearly loving every moment of his time in the spotlight as he fisted his pistol and paced back and forth in front of him, beer belly bouncing along as he moved, his white shirt nearly translucent with sweat as the man made to continue.

"You're going to tell us what we want to know, or I am going to put a bullet in your skull," Kaminski hissed, fingers tightening on the trigger with an overdone flourish as a couple of the goons behind him followed suit.

For a moment the man actually seemed serious, fingers ghosting across the trigger and everything. But then he went and ruined it by getting distracted when Manning leaned over and whispered something in green shirt's ear. Forcing the black haired man to bend down in order to hear as Kaminski faltered. Eyes darting from Manning, to his friend, and then back to him, clearly not purveyed to Manning's confidence.

"Is your fifteen minutes of fame up yet? Or is the grand plan to bore me to death?" He finally gritted. Knees buckling as a flush of heat curled up his spine. Suddenly feeling hot and shivery inside his own skin as he propped his uninjured side against the wall, vision fading in and out of focus the harder he tried to regain it.

"…Because honestly, I'm done talking. So either kill me or let me get a few hours of sleep while you make up your god damned minds!" He growled. Head up and proud despite the fact that he was pretty sure he was about five minutes away from passing out cold.

He knew within five seconds of the last word leaving his lips that he'd finally gone too far. Because before he could even so much as bring his arms up to defend himself, Kaminski turned a rather alarming shade of reddish-puce. Spluttering in rage as the gun wavered, barely getting shoved back into the man's holster before the chubby little man rushed at him.

"You fucking prick!" Kaminski screeched, seizing him by the neck and doing his best to shake him around like a rag doll, nearly throttling him before he managed to get his bound hands up. Twisting and squirming in the fat bastard's grip until his fingers clamped down on a pressure point. Grinding down with his shackled hands until the flighty douche squealed like a stuck pig and tore himself away.

The group seemed to take a collective pause at that, eying him a bit differently now that Kaminski was leaning to port. One hand clutching at the spot between his neck and his shoulder as his lips spewed out curses like machine gun casings during a fire fight.

But that was when green shirt stepped forward, eying him down, all icy cool and smug. Like he knew something he didn't as he swaggered forward. Feet dancing just out of reach as he crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. All but sweating insincerity and he looked down his nose at him.

Christ, now what? If they were going to kill him, why didn't they just fucking get on with it already?

"Who's Sophia then?" Green shirt demanded, fixing him with a calculating look when he stiffened in place. Reacting involuntarily as the walking shit stain all but spat her name, letting it dribble off his lips, all careless and cruel, like she didn't mean anything at all.

…Oh.

"Weston and Johnston heard you out there a few weeks ago, callin' her name. Searchin' for her day after day." Green shirt baited, self satisfaction all but oozing from his tone. Clearly trying to goad him into saying something off guard or taunt him into action.

And honesty? It worked. This had Manning's stink all over it. Somehow he'd known, one of them had seen him out there and had told him. Manning was trying to provoke him. Trying to even the status quo by weakening him the same way he'd done to Manning.

"She yours then? Your woman?" Green shirt sneered, "We saw you out there combing the woods all by your lonesome. You lost your little whore boy? Your friends didn't even come out to help ya'."

His tongue peeked out, wetting his lower lip as the man unknowingly advanced. Inching a few centimeters closer as green shirt basked in his reaction, unable to keep the emotions from flickering across his face as he all but willed the man to move forward. …Just a little bit more…

"Hell, when I find her, and she's fucking you, maybe she'll give me a go." Green shirt considered. Scratching his chin thoughtfully before his face flushed red with irritation as he held himself still, reining himself in despite the fact that every fiber of his being was screaming for retribution.

Because that was wrong, wrong on so many levels that he didn't even know where to start. If they'd been watching him, how could they not know that Sophia had been a little girl and not a woman? Sophia had been a youthful, sprightly little thing with long, colt-like legs, freckled cheeks, and a doll that she hadn't gone anywhere without. She'd stood out like a sore thumb. Even on the highway before the herd.

How could they have missed that?

He wasn't sure what that meant, or why they didn't know the details. They obviously hadn't been watching them for long before they'd kidnapped him. Because if they didn't know that, what else didn't they know? Was that why they wanted to know their numbers? Why they figured there were more members of their group that they hadn't seen? Was this why they were so insistent?

His head spun. It was too much, he couldn't-…

Green shirt hissed when he refused to reply, clearly annoyed when he didn't react to his taunting as he turned to look at the others. Cracking some joke he only half caught as Kaminski chuckled darkly, not even seeming to notice when his feet whispered across that invisible line he'd just been waiting for the asshole to cross.

Because that opening was all he needed.

He didn't even think about it. He lunged at him. Fisting his bound hands in the man's collar as a wordless snarl exploded into the closed space as everything he'd been holding in washed over him in a single deafening explosion of sound. - Red filmed his vision as flashes of the little girl flickered through his mind, twisting through his thoughts until all he could see was a snarl of messy corn silk hair and that ragged blue shirt spattered over with crimson.

He barely even noticed when the others beat him loose, wrestling him away from green shirt as he fucking lost it. Yelling and screaming as a base roar smouldered to life in the back of his mind. Propelling him forward as his bound hands smashed into hard bone and soft bellies as one man dropped and he took out all his pain, all his frustration, loss, anger, and disgust on whatever body he could reach.

He used the chain to shore up the strength on his broken hand, twisting and ducking as best as the he could as two or three of them descended on him at once. - He used the chain like a weapon, it was still attached to the wall but there was just enough room to trip the bastards as he swung around. Ducking underneath it just at the right moment as he used it to hamstring the reedy one with the glasses and trip two of the bulkier ones in mid rush as they in turn bowled over into the group behind them. Taking them all down in a muted crash of tangled limbs and cut off curses as Manning yelled orders into the din.

"The little shit needs a leash! Fuckin' animal!" Someone cried. Their panicked yell nearly drowned out by a pained squeal as the sound of someone's nose breaking echoed in the small room.

But all the while he only had eyes for Manning, raw anger blistering just underneath the surface every time he missed grabbing the man by the merest centimeter. Slipping and sliding out of his grip like the snake he was whenever the man dared to get just a little bit too close.

It was more like an afterthought when he considered the fact that Manning had his gun drawn, fingers flirting with the trigger as he stared him down from across the room. Eyes hard, but nothing like they were before as the men around him yelled, struggling to their feet as the moment lengthened.

But the moment was broken when green shirt straightened, spitting mad and murderous as he pulled out his gun and clicked off the safety, gnashing his teeth like he was itching to take a bite out of him himself as he stomped forward.

"Time to die, trailer trash." Green shirt sneered.

"No! He's mine." Manning called out, voice strong and ribbed with authority as he shoved to the front of the group, apparently recovered enough to take charge as Green shirt and Kaminski flanked him on both sides.

"Hang him back up in his room. Let him get used to the meaning of dead meat." Manning snarled, eyes glittering dangerously as Kaminski grinned, miming a snapping jaw and outstretched hands as he bounced on the balls of his feet, smiling down at him nastily.

Oh fuck… Walkers? Manning was going to-

He was still breathing hard when the world shuddered. Suddenly all too aware of the thrum of his pulse and the rapid, uneven breathes he'd started taking as his skin prickled with the beginnings of a cold sweat. Unable to help himself as the scene before him dimmed. Finding himself inexplicably in the moment as he bit down on his lower lip and staggered. Numb fingers scrabbling for purchase as the last of his strength left him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the group approaching. All nasty grins and eager fists as something deep in his hind brain just fucking howled. This was it, the last stand. He wouldn't get another chance like this…

So instead of waiting for them to come to him, he lunged again, surging forward the same moment green shirt made a move. And by sheer dumb luck he seized the taller man by the shoulders and twisted in place. Moving until he was positioned behind him as he pinned green shirt in the same choke hold Shane had caught him in months ago.

The others erupted into action, cocking their guns and yelling for him to let the man go. But he didn't. Instead, he only tightened his hold. Grunting in pain and exertion as he leaned in and whispered something inaudible in the man's ear, lips ghosting across the shell of his ear just before he squared his shoulders twisted.

He broke the man's neck in a single motion. Quick, clean and effortless as the horrible twist and crunch of the man's neck snapping echoed above the others surprised shouts.

…In for a penny…in for a pound…

His lip curled as green shirt's body crumpled at his feet. Hitting the floor with a fleshy thud as Kaminski cried out and the sound of six separate guns cocked into the stillness, chasing the echoes of green shirt's unvoiced scream as he caught Manning's gaze and held it.

Oh fuck, he was going to-…

He sucked in a breath, refusing to blink as Manning's face blurred, heart pounding in his ears as he stumbled, hands slapping against the wall and he tried and failed to regain his balance. - Because this time he saved them the trouble of dealing with him when he passed out before they could even so much as lay a hand on him. His body finally calling it quits as he slumped backwards, cracking his head against the wall as he went as the world went dark.


	16. Chapter 16

He woke up to the taste of stale vomit and darkness. All too aware of the discomforting slick of saliva that was dribbling down from the corner of his lips as the bitter tang of his own fluids coated the inside of his mouth like a sickness.

And for a long, rather heart wrenching moment he wondered if he'd just looped back to the beginning. Back to that moment in the truck where he'd been blindfolded and alone, back to that moment where everything had been shapeless. Where matter had clashed with matter and objects had burst into existence without purpose or substance. Where everything had felt like chaos, but in fact, had been perfectly clear the entire time.

Life is all about choices. The choices we make, but more particularly the choices we don't make. The choices made by others that ultimately intersect with our own. Something you can't foresee or even control. Something you don't deserve but are stuck with anyway, until suddenly, the question becomes, now what? Because in the end, all that really matters is what you do with the situation you have been given.

Before all this, before Manning, he hadn't known that darkness had a taste. That it had shades and layers. But now he did. Because when he hit the rewind button in his brain, he could go back there. Back to the moment where the rattle of the engine had coursed through his bones like there was nothing else like it in the world. Back where the air had been ripe with the smell of death and lilted with the sweetness of his own confusion as small whimpers of pain were coaxed from his lips with every god damned bump of that old dirt road.

He was alive, then and now. And now, just like in the back of that truck, he was caught on the cusp, trapped between life and death as the uncertainty of his own future loomed ahead of him like the oncoming beam of a run away train.

The blow to the back of the head had been a mercy. Hell, he'd welcomed the blackness, the triumphant rush of unconsciousness that had zinged through his brain like an electric shock as the world had gone dark. But now he was awake, alone with only himself and his own deluded thoughts.

Christ, he wasn't supposed to be here…

Not here, anywhere but here. Not back in this same god damned room, a place that smelled like stale piss and old sweat. Where the scent of blood rose, cloying and thick as he swung from side to side, arms wrenched above his head as his body screamed. Muscles and joints on fire as he entertained the same thoughts he'd had when they'd first taken him, shackling him to that hook on the ceiling like a piece of meat after slaughter.

'These assholes sure knew what they were doing alright.' He murmured. Voice low and undeniably wrecked as his feet scrabbled uselessly for purchase. Shoulders cracking ominously as his joints and muscles seized up the more he tried to stay still.

He wasn't sure what day it was anymore. He wanted to say that it had been three or four days since he'd been attacked, but it was impossible to tell for certain. Five? Six? Maybe a week? - And on that note, why wasn't he dead yet? He knew Manning was sadistic, but keeping him alive at this point was useless. It was a drain on resources and man power. FEMA should have known better.

Unless…

The blood on his tongue was so familiar that it hurt. But he swallowed it regardless, unable to find it in him to turn his head and spit it out. - His skin buzzed. Crawling and twitching like there were bugs burrowing underneath his flesh as a muted little shiver ran through him.

Christ, maybe he was hurt worse than he'd thought. He'd never felt so out of it, so disconnected. Even his sight was blurred, the shadows smudged like ink blots on wet paper.

His head lolled. There was writing on the wall. Not just metaphorically, but literally. It was a whirl of high school scribbling that had probably been penned by some love struck girl who had probably either worked or stayed here. Maybe bored to tears on some ill timed family vacation or playing hooky from middle school by hanging out in this place sometime before the infection.

He squinted, hearing fizzing out like static on a TV when the chain clinked and pulled taunt as he leaned forward to read. It said: "Samantha loves Derek," the names written inside a heart with an awkward little cupid's bow pierced through it. He blinked; trying to shake away a sudden bout of double vision as one heart suddenly became two. Shit.

His lids drooped. God he was tired.

'Concussion… Stay awake, shit head!' Some nasty little part of his brain sing-songed, sounding positively gleeful about this new development as the scribbled note wavered. Blinking in and out of existence as the wall in front of him seemed to shiver. Oh crap.

Sharp teeth dug brutally into his lower lip as he forced himself to focus. He had to stay awake, stay alert. That's what the doctors said when you had a concussion, right?

He hummed into the stillness. Not so much with words or sounds, but with base vibrations that coursed up from the very heart of him. Feeling more than hearing as the tension in the chains tugged painfully on his ruined shoulders. Boot soles ghosting across the blood splattered tiles as he swung back and forth.

It reminded him of the steps to a dance he'd seen once. Back when his mama had still been alive, watching her favorite soap opera every afternoon at one like clock work. Back when their old man had finally dragged his lazy ass off to work and Merle was off somewhere pretending to be at school.

He'd had her all to himself in those days, days where he could curl up in her lap with a juice box and a bowl of popcorn and watch TV until it was time to make dinner. - It hadn't been much but he'd lived for those moments, for buttery fingers and surprise tickle attacks that left no corner of the living room unscathed. For ramshackle pillow forts and lazy afternoons where mama's tired curls were left loose. Still wet from the shower and framing her face in soft brown ringlets that got caught in her dimples when she smiled and laughed.

He'd always thought that she'd looked prettier than anyone of those made up women on TV. But he'd never told her. He wasn't sure why, but he hadn't, at least not when he'd had the chance anyway. …When it'd mattered.

He jerked, mind and body suddenly rebelling as memories and emotions he'd only half forgotten threatened to overwhelm him completely. He felt weak and vulnerable, like he was five seconds away from either snapping or crying and he wasn't exactly sure which one of them was worse.

If he had the energy he would have blinked. He hadn't thought about that shit in years. Too used to keeping those memories locked away. Safely stored in a place where no one could either sully them or take them away. He knew it wasn't much but it was all he had.

It was all in the moments.

The light bulb flickered above him, casting a sickly yellow glow across the room as he balanced on the toes of his beat up boots. Watching the way his own blood and vomit reflected the low light as he wriggled in place, boots grazing the tiles as he tried in vain to find a position that didn't feel like his arms were slowing getting ripped off.

And yet, even that sensation had become strangely muted, dulling down to nothingness as the hours ticked by. All in all it probably wasn't a good sign, but at the end of the day he figured he'd earned a little reprieve.

He floated. Mind untethered as he let his thoughts wander, feeling a rush of air ghost across his skin, upsetting his balance as he looked towards the door on reflex. Wondering as he swayed, if this was what dying felt like. - Where reality felt listless and vague… Almost phantasmagorical in quality as your brain revisited things you thought were long forgotten purely for the sake of your own harrowed conscience.

Maybe it was just the brains way of coping. He didn't quite know what to think of it. But what he did know was that he had no idea why he wasn't dead yet. - For fucks sakes, if Manning was going to kill him like he claimed, he might as well get it over with. What was with all this stalling!

He didn't realize he'd nearly nodded off until he found himself jolting forwards. Arms wrenching painfully as he struggled to right himself, trying to take the bulk of the stress off his aching arms as he planted his feet firmly on the ground, barely able to find the traction to remain up right as he fought for foothold.

Only when he looked up, everything had changed.

He blinked. Squeezing his eyes shut for a few long seconds before he opened them again. Because there was a figure in front of him, a person etched out in vapors and filled in with shadows, that was leaning against the door with a distinctly familiar air.

No, it couldn't be…

His head lolled, chin dipping down into his chest as his tongue peeked out. Running across his lower lip and stinging all the way as saliva slicked across the cuts and tears. Pursing his lips he gnawed on the inside of his cheek, deliberately looking down at his feet as the figure pushed itself off the door and swaggered forward. A mess of heavy footfalls and brimming over confidence as the last person he'd ever expected to see took shape in front of him.

"Takin' the easy way out are 'ya boy?"

"…Merle?" He whispered. All too conscious of the fact that Manning probably had a few sets of guards posted outside the door as his brother cupped his calloused palm around his chin and grinned.

"Who else Darlina?" Merle teased, voice gruff, just like he remembered it as the man reached into his leather vest and pulled out a squashed package of Lucky Strikes. Shaking one of the smokes out before he pulled out his zippo and lit it. Filling the room with the unmistakable smell of lit tobacco and burning chemicals.

Fuck, it had been ages since he'd had a smoke…

"You aren't here." He rasped. Looking down at his boots as a wreath of smoke rose around them. Watching habitually as Merle took a puff and held it, throat working convulsively before he exhaled. A look of utter bliss washing across his hard hewn features as he sucked in another lungful and repeated the process.

"Here. Out there, what does it matter?" Merle replied unconcernedly, walking in a circuit around him as he inspected his restraints, fingers tapping rhythmically across the length of the chain as he flicked an eyebrow up at the hook he was hanging from.

"Well, you've certainly gotten yourself into a world of shit this time little brother. I thought I taught you better than this…" Merle cracked, tone conversational, but holding not one ounce of true concern as he finished his circling and came back around to face him.

"You didn't teach me nothin'." He shot back, suddenly angry as Merle flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and eyed him down dangerously.

"Is that so?" Merle replied with a snort, "Bro, I taught you everything you know." The man replied, eyes slitting as he took him in from head to toe before spitting a mouthful of saliva off to the side with a distinctly disgusted air.

"Who are you holding out for anyway? Grimes and his pack of mutts? Merle chuckled, continuing the conversation despite the fact that he hadn't replied.

"…They 'aint coming for you boy, they're probably a hundred miles away by now and laughing at your pathetic ass. Probably even glad to be rid of you I'd reckon." Merle remarked. Ignoring his flinch and grunt of pain as the man tried to lift up a section of his bloody shirt, only to stop when it became apparent that the filthy material was all but fused to the wound at his side.

Sophia…

"Not like you're any better." He shot back, groaning minutely as he tried to take the weight off his throbbing shoulders. Doing his best to ignore the way sweat was starting to trickle down from his hairline. Pebbling across his lips like rain before he licked them clean. Finding the watered down salt to be a welcome change from the rich tang of his own blood.

"Is that so?" The allusion responded, lips twisting into that same crooked grin that reminded him of summer cook outs and childish teenage dares that usually ended up with him doing something epically stupid while Merle collapsed on the floor, laughing his ass off.

"You were never around when I needed 'ya." He hissed, the words slipping from his lips like he was gargling poison, bitter and sulfuric as he looked his older brother straight in the eye for the first time in longer than he could remember.

But what made it worse was the fact that it rang true, and the man barely even reacted. Not even attempting to deny it as Merle took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked it off to the side.

"But I'm here now little brother. Doesn't that count for something?" Merle or at least his hallucination of Merle pointed out. Adjusting the girth of his belt as he shoved his hands, both of them, just like in the ravine in the woods, deep into his pockets.

"You 'aint gonna doing nothin' though. Just like last time. I'm gunna wake up to find some walker chomping on my ass." He muttered, lids heavy as he struggled to keep the man in focus.

"Now who says I'm doing nothin' little bro?" Merle chuckled, crossing his arms with that same infuriating; shit eating grin as he tipped his head to the side. Motioning towards the door with his close cropped head just before his image spluttered. Blinking out of existence like he'd never been there in the first place, leaving him alone with his own thoughts as his vision wavered.

Five seconds later the echoing peal of gunfire exploded into the near quiet.


	17. Chapter 17

The next thing he was aware of was the door creaking open. The slow, high pitched echo of rusty hinges coupled with a tentative hand. As if the person behind the action wasn't quite sure what they'd find when they opened the door. It was so unlike the dramatic and undeniably brutal entrances of Manning and his crew that his eyes fluttered open.

At first he thought that Merle was back. Well not Merle per say, but his hallucination of Merle. He figured it was just his mind's nasty sense of humor getting the last laugh. Ensuring that the last face he saw in this god forsaken place would be Merle's ugly mug.

But it wasn't Merle. The figure was too slight; all mess of lean, artful lines rather than stocky limbs and bunched up muscle. He couldn't make them out, but he knew enough to know that it wasn't him. - His grit encrusted lashes shuddered, drooping with exhaustion as one became two, then three, then four. Christ, he was losing it, there was no way they could be-…

There was a harsh intake of breath, and then a stuttered curse.

"…Oh god, Daryl.."

He was dreaming. There was no other explanation. Because suddenly there were warm hands pulling him flush against an equally warm chest. Surrounded by a roving canvas of multicolored skin that smelled like crushed pine sap, fresh dirt, and the acrid tang of expelled gunpowder as what felt like a dozen different pairs of hands curled around him.

The hands were hurried, but gentle. So gentle that he realized he'd almost forgotten what the sensation actually felt like. Fingers ghosting across his skin until they came upon his bound hands. Tangling with the metal chain as another voice hissed out a distracted curse before he was suddenly lifted upwards.

He didn't even have the energy to resist.

He moaned in relief as the tension slackened and the gentle hands lowered him to the ground. Lifting him up and off the hook as the metallic clink of metal meeting metal melded together with the harried echoes and muted whispers that seemed to be repeating his name over and over. - But at that point he didn't care who they were, he could have fucking kissed them.

"Jesus Christ, what did they do to him?" One of them demanded. Tone pitched high with anger and nerves as a dark shape knelt at his side. Voice so god damned familiar that it hurt.

There was a sharp tug on his wrists as suddenly they were free, slapping limply at his sides as pain flared through his broken hand. Wounds throbbing dully as the rope and chains seemed to take away more skin than they left.

"Daryl? Daryl? Look at me. Come on man. That's it…good." Another person coaxed the voice undeniably male as a thick hand wrapped tentatively around his shoulder.

"Daryl, are you-.." Started another voice, only to be cut off by a third as the sound of a door opening and closing only a few meters away stopped the man in mid sentence.

"Rick, we have to go! The main exit is blocked. Walkers are coming in through the lobby!" The voice interrupted, all heavy footfalls and itchy fingers as the man's fingers drummed a harried rhythm across the stock of his rifle.

Rick? …Rick was here?

The world tilted on it's axis as the fingers on his unbroken hand dug into the grooves of the tile, struggling for purchase as the first voice, all lean lines and lanky limbs swooped down to his side. Suddenly far too close and blaringly loud as his heart beat echoed between his temples. Pulse fast, too fast as he flinched away on pure instinct.

"…Daryl, look I know you've been through a lot and I know it really isn't all that safe to move you. But listen, we have to. This place isn't safe, the streets are crawling with walkers and we need to get you back to the farm." The man behind the first voice murmured, his words calm and controlled as he shifted in place, unable to help the pained whimper that left his lips as his side burned, as everything burned.

…The farm? Wait…

He was about to say something when they levered him up, clearly trying to be gentle as strong hands grasped him under his aching shoulders and dragged. But it didn't work. Hell, all the care and consideration in the world couldn't erase the fact that he was beaten, bloody, and broken. Because he couldn't take it, losing his battle with consciousness completely as lightening flashed. Sparking across his vision as an agonized scream tore from his lips the second before darkness took him.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He woke up once along the way to a warm hand curled around his shoulder. The grip gentle but firm, almost as if the person behind it was afraid he'd somehow slip away when they weren't looking.

The world vibrated under him. Sending conflicting sensations of pain and pleasure coursing through him as gravity pulled him left and then right. Bare arms burning against sum warmed metal as the squeak of rubber from someone's boot issued just behind his head. Almost as if someone was sitting somewhere behind him, bracing themselves against the metal at his back every time the world twisted.

It took him a while to realize where he was, but when he did, he felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards. An almost physical feeling of relief flooding through him as the ribbed back of a truck bed bit into his spine. He was in the back of a truck…

And if he'd had the energy or ability to snort out a laugh, he might have done just that as a sharp turn jostled him, curving gently around a corner as he slid a few inches to the right. Unable to shake the feeling that everything had just come strangely full circle.

He blinked, squinting into the brightness as moisture leaked from his aching eyes. Watching as the sun filtered through the trees above them as they raced down some empty, back country road. Taking one turn and then another until the he was forced to close them again. Eyes burning with unshed tears and the bitter tang of sweat as his eyes rebelled after so long in the dark.

It could have been a second or even an hour later when he opened them again. Lashes crusted over with blood and grit as he struggled to make out the person sitting beside him. He listened closely, fighting to hear something…anything over the roar of the engine.

Ah, not one person, but two.

A gust of wind blew a swath of dirty blond hair into his line of sight, the stock of a rifle twitching into view as recognition flashed through his minds eye. Andrea. Something inside his mind clicked. Like a switch had suddenly been turned off as he felt his entire body begin relax, all but melting into the grooves as he struggled for breath, chest tight as he forced himself to calm.

'Safe…' His mind whispered. Safe.

He turned his head to the right and caught sight of the dark hand resting on his shoulder. T-dog… He wondered at that for a moment, eyes catching the bandaged expanse of the man's forearm as his memory sparked. Taking him back to that moment on the highway where he'd been searching for a vehicle to hide under, and caught sight of the man struggling past him, holding tight to his arm as blood trailed out behind him like a god damned faucet.

He hadn't even thought about it as he'd rolled himself out from his hiding place behind the wheel well an eighteen wheeler and followed. - Staying just ahead of the walkers, but completely out of sight of both predator and prey as he waited for his moment to strike.

It had seemed natural. Right in a way he couldn't really bring himself to define as he'd come around the back of that truck just in time to see a walker bearing down on the other man. He remembered taking in the scene with a practiced eye before he'd caught the man's gaze and put an arrow right through the base of that geek's spine, motioning for him to be quiet as he dragged him away from the car and laid him supine on the road.

The rest had been a gamble, covering them over with corpses, trying to mask their scent with that of death as the herd stumbled around them. But it had been the only card he'd had left. They could have died. Hell, he could have funnily enough, he hadn't even thought twice about it at the time.

He supposed that was why they called it a gamble in the first place. All things considered.

He opened his mouth, lips cracking and dessert dry as his tongue rasped across the roof of his mouth, barely hearing the surprised noise that issued from Andrea's throat as he struggled to make his hands work. Lifting it up until his hand met with T-dogs. Feeling the warmth of it seeping into his filthy, blood streaked skin as the man grasped his hand in his own.

"I-I didn't tell them." He whispered. Barely able to get the man's face to focus as he forced out the words, his voice fierce and almost desperate as he tried to make them understand. They had to know that he hadn't, that he'd never… that he hadn't told Manning anything.

"…I didn't-" He struggled, gasping for air as Andrea's hair fluttered across his chest as they bent down to hear. Drowning him in wisps of dirty corn silk as her long blond hair trailed across his blood smeared skin.

"Shhhh, we got you man. We know. We got you." T-dog replied, cutting him off when he tried to say more as his hand squeezed around his lightly. Sending pain shooting through his broken fingers as the man stiffened and carefully untangled his crooked digits from his grip. Placing it gently across his breast as the man leaned back, banging on the rear window as he yelled for bandages.

"You're safe. We'll be at the farm soon. Everyone is fi-" Andrea began, blue eyes fastening on his as the rest of her words fell on deaf eyes. As if the world had suddenly been switched to mute, he could see her lips moving, but no sound came out.

His forehead scrunched, mind spinning until a jolt of panic gripped him. Didn't they know about Manning? He was going to attack! He was waiting for them on the way to Fort Benning! He wanted the farm. He was going to-…

Wait. But that didn't make any sense. If they were heading towards Fort Benning how could they be here? Manning's men should have ambushed them on the road by now. - Or was he just imagining all this? Like he had with Merle? What if this was all a hallucination and he was really still back in that room, unconscious and hanging off that god damned meat hook five minutes away from Manning's own personal version of judgement day? What if-…

God…

He tried to hold on but when they hit a bump, jerking over a pothole in the road his mind suddenly went blank. The action jarring his injured side in a way that sent him sailing, blinding him with errant sun beams and leafy green flashes of the forest canopy above as unconsciousness claimed him again.


	18. Chapter 18

He woke up once to find three separate sets of hands on him. Holding him down as the muted snick-snick of a suture pick pierced through the torn skin of his side. He wasn't sure who was more horrified, him or the others when he thrashed. Struggling on pure instinct as the pick pierced through his skin at an angle that made him cry out in pain and surprise.

"Hold him down, damn it!" Someone yelled hoarsely. The brisk command accompanied by at least two more sets of hands tightening around his arms and legs. Smothering him…Hurting him…

"…Hershel! You're going to have to give him something! He could have internal bleeding; he is going to break his-…"

There were fingers curling around his ruined wrists, burning and insistent as they held him down. And suddenly he was back there, back in that room with Manning lurking in the shadows. Hurting him…telling him terrible things. He was coming for him. He was going to- …No!

"If I give him a sedative now we might lose him! We have no idea what kind of injuries he has!" The first voice returned, already a mess of deep inflections and forced calm. "We can't risk it, not until I know what I'm dealing with! Now hold him down or he'll-…"

He struggled fiercely, desperate to get away as something embarrassingly close to a whimper escaped from his lips. Gasping for air as his nails sunk into someone's forearm and dug deep. Scratching and clawing like a wild thing as the person cried out and tried to pry his fingers away.

But even then he couldn't get free. He couldn't seem to shake them, his vision tunneling as everything became claustrophobic and close. Heart beat pounding in his ears as he sucked in a panicked breath, ignoring the pain splintering down from his chest as he strained. Muscles bunching and releasing under their hands as he all but writhed across the sweat slicked mattress.

"Daryl, stop! We're trying to help you, damnit!" A third voice hissed, sounding strangely angry as they followed up their words by pressing down on his ruined shoulders in a way that made him fucking lose it.

Because Manning was here, standing just behind them, hiding in plain sight. He was wearing Rick's clothes and Rick's face. Grinning down at him maliciously as the others cried out and disappeared, fading off into nothingness just like Merle as Manning's features replaced Rick's. - And then he was back there, being dragged down that long hallway by his collar. Choking and struggling as Manning slapped him across the face. Chaining him back to that same god damned meat hook as his shoulders screamed, throbbing and burning as the man only laughed…

He didn't want to go back. He couldn't. He'd rather die. He couldn't take this anymore! He was going to-

"Are you crazy! Don't restrain him like that! Not after what he's been through! Let him move!" A new voice snapped, feminine and gentle as the woman behind it advanced and the hands wrapped around his arms and legs slowly pulled away.

He tried to curl into himself but he couldn't. His arms and legs wouldn't work the way they were supposed to as he squirmed away from the stifling press of bodies. Everything was fucked. He couldn't even-

"Daryl! Daryl? It's okay. It's us. We've got you. We're just trying to help sweetie. Come on, open you eyes for me. That's it's. …You're doing so good sweetheart, so good... – But you have to let us help you, alright?" The gentle voice coaxed. Familiar in a way that made his struggling slow, unconsciously trusting it as his muscles slowly relaxed, tongue running across his chapped lips as watery blue eyes and a close shorn head wavered into view.

Carol?

But then he was gone again, getting a gritty flash of Glenn's sable hair and Hershel's worried face before the room faded out of focus.


	19. Chapter 19

The next time he woke up, or at least the next time he remembered doing so, he woke up slowly. …Gently. Just like a man was supposed to after a long day of honest labor. Exhausted and tangled up in the arms of some sweet southern thing. After mapping her out from toes to curls just to find that one magic spot you knew all along would make her fucking sing.

He let the silence wash over him long before he stirred. Making the best of the moment as he let his senses tell him what his eyes could not. He knew this place. He was on the farm, in same bedroom he'd ended up in after he'd fallen down that damn ravine looking for Sophia. He was…home.

Huh… He had to admit he hadn't seen that one coming.

Funny how things tend to work out in the end… He supposed that somewhere along the line this had become home, as crazy and dysfunctional as it was. It wasn't just the farm, it was the others. And he figured that at the end of the day, other than for his Mama of course, they were probably the closest thing he'd ever had to the real thing. Pathetic or not, he figured it fit.

It wasn't until the faint, but unmistakable sound of conversation washed over him that his lashes fluttered open. Feathering across the hollows just underneath his eyes as a light breeze whispered across his skin.

He felt…good. …Too good, like he was five seconds away from drifting off or doped up to the eyeballs. Caught in that sinfully comfortable place that existed somewhere in between consciousness and sleep. – His money was on option two however, he hadn't gotten a full night sleep unaided since the world had ended. And after his ordeal with Manning he figured that track record was only going to get worse. So, drugged sleep it was.

He stretched in place. The movement tentative and careful as the distant ache of freshly stitched wounds and recently set bones flared into the forefront of his conscious mind. Throbbing and burning as he jostled his healing muscles, limbs heavy with fatigue and injury as he shifted restlessly. And yet, even that was strangely welcome as he gazed around the room. Blinking blearily as sunlight streamed in through the open window mixing with the muted sounds of nature beyond. A melding cacophony of restful simplicity and muted warmth. - It was welcome because it reminded him that he was still alive. That he'd made it...

And lord, was the siren song of sleep tempting… All he'd have to do was close his eyes and drift off. He felt like he could sleep for weeks.

He held his hand up into the beam of light that was lancing across the bedspread. Marveling disjointedly at the warm amber glow that lit up the bruises, highlighting the rope burns and pitted patches of red where the ropes and chains had cut into his skin. His other hand was wrapped up in gauze and butterfly clips, with just the grainy, dirt encrusted tips of his nails visible underneath. He wriggled a few of them experimentally and winced, definitely broken. But even that seemed somehow distant. …Calm.

He was just wondering when he'd died and how he'd possibly ended up in heaven when Shane's…dulcet tones floated in from the hallway. Interrupting the moment like the blaring of a god damned fog horn as Lori's voice rose up to meet him. – Ah, so not heaven then. Not even close.

Just as well, heaven was probably as boring as shit anyway.

He floated. There was no other word for it. Even he could tell he was drugged up to the fuckin' gills. Everything had that murky, picturesque quality to it. Where he was aware of the pain throbbing through his aching head and injured limbs, he just wasn't overly concerned by it. In fact his nerve endings felt strangely dampened and his reactions molasses-slow as his fingers spidered out across the crisp sheets and thick comforter, content to simply soak it in and experience the sensations as if he were a stranger inside his own skin.

...Weightless and light.

The blankets were soft and warm. That's what he really noticed, almost as if he was wrapped up in a good old fashioned Georgian heat wave, pulse sluggish and full as he all but melted into the mattress. His body curved, curling in on itself leisurely as a gust of wind rippled through the still air. - The sheets were clean and smelled like pressed lavender. Reminding him of how his Mama used to leave fresh sprigs in the linen closet so that everything smelled like spring. It made him wonder if the late Mrs. Green had been in the same habit, or if he'd gotten confused somewhere in between reality and memory.

The distinction between them had been harder to grasp of late. That much he had to admit.

He stretched, the movement lavish and slow in all the right ways, feeling the languorous stretch of skin catching against bare skin, and more than a few bandages pulling at freshly stitched flesh. But it was enough to tell him what he needed to know …That he was really here… Safe and sound, in spite of all odds...

He nearly purred. Feeling strangely contented as bare skin slid across bare skin. Pushed back a few niggling memories in favor of turning his head as his curiosity got the better of him. The action took more effort than he expected but he was rewarded by the sight of a pile of bloody gauze and the tattered remnants of something that looked like it had once been his shirt. The sleeveless blue button up now stained a sick muddy brown and reduced to an oozing pile of reddish sludge.

Nasty… Even for him that was a bit over the top.

It wasn't until the clasps on Hershel's bag opened and closed beside him that he realized he wasn't alone. And inwardly, he marveled at that. Drugged up or not it wasn't like him to miss something that obvious. Hell, more than that it was bad form. How in the seven bloody hells had he managed that?

He flinched back a couple of centimeters on pure reflex, watching the man through blurry lashes as a flurry of words froze in his throat. Held captive at the last second as he took in the scene around him. - From all accounts it looked as though they'd just finished patching him up. Even from the back the older man's posture screamed of exhaustion and stress, holding himself carefully, like he'd been up through out the night working on him.

And Christ… wasn't that just a guilt trip and a half...

He swallowed a sigh, taking in the man's body language out of the corner of his eye as the doctor riffled through his bag. Arthritic fingers trembling slightly as they wiped a cleaning cloth across a particularly terrifying looking instrument before placing it back in its case with a practiced air. Running an errant hand through his thinning white hair as the man adjusted his collar and unrolled his blood splattered sleeves.

He blinked at that. Was that all his blood? …For fuck sakes, it was a wonder he was still breathing let alone awake!

Somewhere down the hall he heard Carol humming, and the hushed voices of Shane and Lori arguing one room over as Hershel puttered around the dresser. The clink and rasp of surgeon's instruments providing background music for the muffled voices that were drifting in through the window as the distant sound of an engine revving rumbled in the humid afternoon.

Everything was quiet, peaceful even. But why? Manning should have been all over this place. He'd had the farm under watch, not to mention the road... And on that note, how could they even be here in the first place? They had been heading to Fort Benning, towards an ambush. He had to know. He had to warn them.

But he hadn't moved even so much as a single, god damned inch before Hershel was hovering over him.

"And just where do you think you're going, son?" The man questioned, tone concerned as a single hand pressed him back, pinning him back against the bed spread with remarkable ease, like he weighed nothing at all rather than probably two or three times the old timer's weight. Pointedly ignoring the way he struggled minutely under the older man's grip but gained no head way.

Fuck, he must have been worse off than he'd originally thought.

"You wouldn't make it two steps from the bed, let alone to the door." Hershel replied, carrying on with that same patented tone that was unique to doctors everywhere. Carefully patronizing, pointedly smug, and worst of all frustratingly right.

He set his teeth mulishly, having half a mind to prove the crotchety old bastard wrong on pure principal as he sent him a patented glare. - Something which unfortunately proved to be somewhat less than impressive when he winced reflectively, broken ribs protesting as he tried and failed to lever himself up on his elbows.

"That's not a challenge son, merely an unfortunate reality at this point," Hershel replied, having apparently added mind reading to his already impressive skill set while he was away. "You need time to heal. You aren't going to bounce back from this one in just a few days, I'm afraid. You need to give yourself time to heal."

"You should sleep now, you hear?" The older man murmured, voice low and inexplicably disarming as he leaned in. Cutting him off before he could start, as delicately calloused fingers gently tested the tightness of one of the bandages wrapped around his waist.

"But what happened? How are you all here? Manning was going to-" He protested, limbs fidgeting in place as the man pushed him back onto the mattress. Brooding like an overly concerned mother hen as the older man tucked him back into the blankets. Taking advantage of the moment as his thoughts grew sluggish. Barely managing to stifle a yawn as the doctor counted out his pulse just below the bandages that encircled each of his wrists.

Those cuffs were probably going to end up leaving a scar...perhaps in more way than one...

"Rest son, lord knows you need it." Hershel returned, voice tinged with sorrow and relief, but blessedly empty of pity as he looked down at him. - And whether that was for his benefit or the truth of the matter, he didn't know. But either way he'd figured he'd take what he could get. His pride had suffered enough.

His vision blurred. Lid's heavy with sleep as he unwillingly did just that. Settling back into the pillows with a quiet sigh, the warm glow of the sun slowly fading as the older man pulled down the blinds. Softening the glow with a reassuring rush of air as the sound of heavy footsteps hushed across the rug, already half asleep as the doctor collected his kit and made to leave.

So really, all else considered, he could have just imagined the careful press of a hand ghosting across his forehead as the doctor's footsteps slowed. Brushing his hair back from his face, as careful fingers gentled the sweat dampened strands out of his eyes and off his forehead as sleep claimed him as her own.


	20. Chapter 20

He woke up with a painful jerk. Struggling for clarity as the last vestiges of his drug induced sleep warred with that of his conscious mind, caught fast in a disconcerting reel of nightmare and reality as he fisted his hands in the sheets. Breathing hard as he forced himself to calm, recognizing both his surroundings and the muted glow of sunlight filtering in through the blinds as he fell back into the pillows with a grateful sigh.

He was still here, at the farm. It was true then… He really was here. Home. Thank Christ.

There was a glass of water on the bedside table, it took some fumbling but he was eventually able to grasp it with his bandaged hand, only vaguely feeling the pain in his broken fingers as he took a tentative sip. Relishing in the coolness as he downed it slowly, all too aware of the twinge in his ribs and the throbbing in his head and side.

Fuck, he was a mess…

It wasn't until he shifted in place, hiking himself upright in an effort to check his injuries that he realized he was as naked as a jaybird under the sheets. Stripped bare save for a pair of blue boxer shorts that he didn't recognize, and a canvas of skin so beat up that he hardly recognized himself.

He looked like a walking bruise, with his body host to an odd mish-mash of cuts, gashes, bandages and scabs that reflected shallowly in the low light. And that wasn't all, he was…clean, very clean. Probably the cleanest he'd been since the CDC, scrubbed free of all the sweat, blood, and dirt until his skin practically glowed, bruises and all.

He tried not to think too hard about what that meant. Or more specifically who he'd be avoiding eye contact with for the next week or so. He just prayed it'd been the doctor, but had a sneaking suspicion that it had probably been Patricia or even Carol knowing his crappy ass luck. As if his pride hadn't suffered enough over the last week?

Fuck.

A soft knock broke him from his thoughts. Startling him as he looked up towards the door in both surprise and more than a little concern. Was the it the doctor? It had to be. What would anyone else want with him? - Momentarily lost, he cast his eyes around for the comforter and hiked the blankets up to his chest before he grunted at them to come in.

All else considered he wasn't overly surprised to see Rick open the door and pause inside the threshold. Taking him in for a long moment before he made to speak, one foot firmly inside the room while the other remained in the hallway, almost as if the older man was uncertain of his welcome.

"How are you feeling?" Rick asked, fingers coming up to massage his temples after he greeted him with a nod. Apparently too tired to mask his exhaustion as he caught his gaze and held it. The man looked about as burned out and as uncomfortable as he felt as the ex-sheriff leaned up against the door frame. His long legs catching on the wooden edging as he looked down at him with an expression of relief that seemed surprisingly genuine.

He just raised an eye brow and glared.

"…Like hammered shit." He replied bluntly, tone softening only slightly when the older man had the good grace to blush.

"How long?" He rasped impatiently. Fingers tangling with the sheets as the sheriff all but collapsed into the arm chair propped up against the wall. - All but chomping at the bit to know what had happened now that he had the man's undivided attention.

"Nearly a week…" Rick replied, running his hands through his hair before turning back to face him. Sending him an inscrutable look out of the corner of his eye as he stiffened on pure reflex.

But this time he wasn't even looking at the man. Instead he sank back into the pillows with a shocked exhale. …A week? He'd been in that shit hole for a week? - The fingers on his uninjured hand trembled, but he curled his lip against it. Composing his expression into something hard and suitably vacant as he flicked back through his memories, strangely determined to prove the man wrong as he tried to remember the events of the past seven days.

The only problem was that there had been no way to determine the passing of time when he'd been with Manning. There had been no natural lighting or tangible schedule to keep track of. Nothing but Manning, green shirt, and Kaminski and the fitful light of an ailing crank lantern for company. Nothing but the slow scream radiating out from his ruined shoulders and the constant barrage of questions as Manning had slowly worked him down. Pushing, pressing, and crushing him from the inside out the longer he resisted. It would have never ended, he knew that now.  
Manning wouldn't have stopped until he'd gotten what he wanted, one way or another.

A week? … Yes, it could have been a week. But it'd felt like months. Years even. Near the end it had felt like that room was all there was and all there ever would be. Because there had come a point where he'd known he wasn't going to get out of that place alive. A point where he knew he would die there, that every inch of him would perish in that terrible place. And yet, even among all that darkness, there had always been that the certainty that somewhere out there the others were still alive. - And strangely, that had been enough. It had given him something to hold on to, something to covet and protect. And now, here he was... alive.

It almost didn't seem real.

"Daryl, I'm sorry. Hell, I don't even know what to say. I mean, when we got there you were-…" Rick began, discomfort and regret creeping into his tone as the older man shifted in his seat.

"What happened?" He butted in, cutting Rick off in mid sentence when the man's words suddenly became too much. He didn't need anyone's sympathy, least of all Grimes'. He was fine, god damnit, nothing a bit of sleep and some pain killers couldn't cure at any rate.

"Of course… Well that in itself is a bit more complicated to answer." Rick mused, sending him the ghost of a smile as he unfolded himself from the chair and started towards door, "…Not to mention some of it isn't my story to tell. Hold on, I'll get the others." Rick continued, sending him an encouraging look as he opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again.

A fucking week!

Rick returned a few moments later with Shane, T-dog, Glenn, Hershel, and Carol. He stiffened a bit at the sudden influx of people, but forced himself not to react. Making sure none of his discomfort showed on his face as the others crowded in uncomfortably close. Only nodding and sending monosyllabic responses in return as they sent him a wreath of smiles and a tangle of encouraging words before dispersing through out the room, giving him his space as he eased himself into a sitting position.

"So? What happened?" He prompted. Tone throaty and rough in a way he hardly recognized as Glenn reached for the glass of water on his bedside table and handed it to him.

"It wasn't easy, that much I'll admit right off the bat." Rick began, sending Shane a sharp look when the taller man snorted derisively from his position at the doorway. Expression strangely dark in a way that told him he hadn't been completely on board with the others on this particular instance.

Figures... He should have expected nothing less given the way the man had been acting lately. A few screws loose was an understatement since Otis's untimely death. Something that made the man unpredictable and dangerous, a liability that was getting harder and harder to justify as the days went on. But more particularly a liability that everyone was beginning to notice as well. It was only a matter of time before the man went and snapped on them. He'd seen it happen enough in the past to know the signs. Merle might not have been a good brother, but he'd taught him a whole hell of a lot more than they taught you in middle school these days. - Besides, Merle hadn't exactly been the poster child for stability, even before the end of the world.

"I think the first part you know," Rick began with a smile, "you and Glenn went off hunting. About two or three miles from the farm as far as Glenn told us," Rick continued, nodding over at Glenn as the kid straightened from his place beside his bed at the mention.

"Glenn told us you caught a buck. A mighty fine one if I recall the tale correctly." Hershel added, giving him an inscrutable look as he placed his kit on top of the dresser and nodded towards the younger man.

"I did what you said; I headed back to the farm," Glenn piped up, looking uncommonly subdued as his long lashes fluttered, seemingly unable to meet his eyes as he spoke. "T-dog and Shane came back with me to help us carry it, but when we got there, you were gone and so was the deer." He explained.

"At first we thought it was walkers." T-dog began, looking at Shane with a pointed glare before turning back to face him. Dark brown eyes unaccustomedly hard as Shane raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest defensively, giving him a sudden impression of just who had come up with that assumption in the first place.

"But then things didn't seem to add up." Glenn continued. "We looked for miles in every direction and found no walkers, no bodies, nothing. Not even the deer carcass." Glenn exclaimed. Mashing his hat further down on his head as his gaze seemed to turn inward. "It didn't make any sense…" The kid muttered in visible frustration.

"Shane found your crossbow in a clump of bushes, with a bolt still loaded and ready to fire, so we figured that didn't make any sense either. After all, it isn't like you to just abandon a loaded weapon," T-dog added. "…And then there were the tracks."

"…Tracks?" He asked, intrigued in spite of himself that they'd even noticed such a thing. The city slickers weren't exactly trackers after all.

"Apparently there were tracks all over that clearing, boot prints that were too deliberate and evenly spaced to be walkers. As well as a bunch of disturbed soil and uprooted brush that we figured meant something else had gone down." Rick replied, waiting until Glenn nodded before continuing.

"The next day the four of us headed out and found a bunch of tracks leading out of the clearing, along with some pretty obvious indications that something had been dragged out of that clearing along with them. – We followed them all the way up to a back country road and found fresh tire tracks leading south." Rick continued. Stretching his legs with a relieved sigh as his hands curled around the armrests of his chair.

"As well as a small group of walkers," Shane reminded, piping up for the first time as he eyed him down from across the room. Expression hard and strangely resentful before it was smothered by a blank, PR-type stare he'd come to associate with most cops before the world had ended.

"We followed the tire tracks until we hit the black top, and then, well, we lost them." Rick finished, looking tired as he ran his hands through his hair and sucked in a careful breath.

"We thought we'd lost you until we woke up the next morning and Carol found your vest and a note hung up on the clothes line." Glenn hurried to add. Nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet with nervous excitement, clearly anticipating the part that came next as Carol sent him a small smile before ducking her head and looking back towards Rick.

"It was a ransom demand." Rick continued, his words blunt and to the point as his lips twisted, like he'd suddenly tasted something that didn't agree with him. "A rather pointed one if the bloodstains were anything to go by…"

"Manning…" He muttered. Tone dark as images of the man's smug face floated through his minds eye. Not even noticing as the others exchanged a flurry of looks over his head.

"That's who it was signed by, an agent Richard Horace Manning from FEMA, supposedly." Rick replied carefully, "I take it he was the one in charge?"

"So he kept saying," He snorted, scratching his chin idly as flashes of the man rose to the forefront of his mind's eye, all professional swagger and unkind eyes. God, he hoped they'd put him down. …Slowly. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to do it himself. - He would have given just about anything to see the expression on that man's smug little face when he realized that the cavalry had finally arrived.

"It seems as though you two got along…swimmingly." Rick replied carefully, but not without a hint of sarcasm. Only watching as his hands clenched into tight fists in response to the bastard' name.

"I wish I could say that he looks worse. But Manning wasn't the type to get his hands dirty, if you know what I mean." He explained with a smirk.

"...Although some of his men learned that I wasn't...the hard way." He added with a mirthless little grin. Savoring the memory as he remembered the way green shirt's neck had snapped under his hands. Recalling the pained screams and surprised grunts as he'd given it his all, imagining all the while that it was Manning's ugly mug he was pummeling.

"Him and his people have been watching us; right from the beginning. They spotted us that day on the highway and have been keeping track of us ever since. They even had people in the woods spying on me while I was lookin' for Sophia." He continued, struggling to order his thoughts as he cast his mind back to what Manning had told him.

"They didn't know where the farm was, or where we were based. But after they knocked me unconscious, Manning sent a few of his men back to case the area. It didn't take them long to find the farm after that, or so he said anyway. - He wanted to know about us, the farm, our numbers, supplies, weapons… You name it. He wanted information before he ordered an outright assault," He spat, eyes locking on Shane as the man huffed disdainfully. Making no effort to hide his feelings as Shane's lips twisted into a dangerous smirk.

"And what did you tell him?" Shane demanded, stepping forward with a sudden jerk that had him recoiling into the pillows. His stance aggressive and tone all but dripping with barely checked violence as he closed in on him.

"Shane! That's enough!" Rick snapped, tensing in place as he rose up from his seat to meet him. - But Shane clearly wasn't about to let this one go, because the bigger man only snorted and looked down at him with an ugly expression. Bypassing Rick entirely in favor of fixing with him an nasty look.

"You can't be serious? Who knows what he told Manning about us and our defenses? Hell, he could have given us all up in the first place. Told them where to find us to deliver the random demand. - Wake up y'all! If he had someone like Merle for a brother who knows what he did over there?" Shane insisted, words cutting and vicious as he wrenched himself upright, ignoring the searing pain in his side as his hackles rose. The little hairs on the back of his neck rising in time as anger surged up in the back of his throat like bile.

That fucking sonofabitch!

"A hell of a lot less than you would have done in my position!" He retorted, ignoring the pain in his side as he made to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Cutting through the sudden babble as everyone jumped into the fray, brimming over with silent expletives as they turned on the ex-deputy as one.

"Enough! He isn't well enough for this. Either you leave now or this conversation is over." Hershel insisted, straightening in place as he glared at Shane from clear across the room. Speaking over the muddle of voices with a soft tone that brought all the noise in the room down to a low simmer. Commanding everyone's attention far better than any shout or half-assed demand.

"Fine." Shane hissed. "If this is how y'all want to play it, then be my guest. Just don't come crying to me when it comes back around and bites you in the ass." He finished. Posture ridged as he pushed his way out of the room and out of sight, slamming the door behind him.

"I didn't tell them nothin'." He growled. "You think I got my face rearranged for cooperating?" He spat incredulously, indicating at his injuries as he sat bolt upright in the bed, not even noticing when the blankets fell down to his waist. Pooling around his groin as the starkness of his bandages contrasted oddly with the purpling bruises and angry red flush that was steadily creeping down from his face and neck.

"We know Daryl. He's just-" Rick began, trying to get a word in edge wise before he spoke over him. Cutting the man off in mid word as his anger got the better of him.

"Then why is he shootin' his mouth off like I did?" He began, incensed and steaming mad as he glared at the door that the man had just stormed out from like it had done him some sort of personal injustice. Staring it down like he could see right through it and into the hall beyond as the others shifted awkwardly.

"Shane speaks for Shane, not for us. Not on this." T-dog affirmed, looking strangely contemplative as he looked towards to the open window as the sound of Shane stomping down the porch steps drifted in through the open window.

And as he looked around the room, taking in each one of their faces, he was surprised and perhaps even a bit unexpectedly humbled by what he saw there. They were with him. Not just on this, but on everything, too the end.

Hell, they'd proved that much already…

His throat grew tight as something unidentifiable swelled in his chest, threatening to unman him completely as he swallowed hard, barely able to grasp the full connotations of the moment as the true meaning behind T-dog's words slammed through him with all the subtly of a crossbow bolt to the chest. …Brutal, but completely unmistakable in its sincerity.

Christ.


	21. Chapter 21

He wasn't sure if it was the pain killers they'd given him or the nature of the moment itself, but he had to admit that his mind just stalled. Finding himself on the cusp of uttering something shallow and suitably flippant before he forced himself to stop. Pulling the words back just in time as he closed his mouth with an audible snap, content to let the silence breathe as the full measure of their words settled over him like a balm.

No more lies. No more hiding. ...Hell, it seemed all but impossible.

He wasn't used to this, to what they were offering. This familiarity and closeness… this fucked up sense of belonging. He didn't feel as though he was worth it either, worth their overbearing sentimentality and selfless truths. But he'd be damned if he didn't want it… Hell, maybe he even needed it when it all came down to it.

He just didn't know anymore.

Funny how often life tends to mix the good in with the bad. Adding just enough of both to keep you off balance and uncertain, even as your muscles slowly learn how to relax. - It had taken him a long time, months if he was being honest, but he'd learned. Teaching himself not to flinch at every touch or lash out at the smallest hint of closeness. It was only through equal bouts of patience and frustration that he learned to look at the world through eyes that were more like his mother's than Merle's. Reveling in the goodness and diversity he found there as he willingly stepped outside of Merle's shadow for the first time since diapers.

Ultimately, he wasn't sure if it was strangely appropriate or just down right sad that it had taken the end of the fucking world for him to finally figure that out for himself.

"Anyway…" Glenn began awkwardly, scuffing his foot across the carpet as the silence stretched. Turning uncomfortable and stale until a soft knock on the door ended the moment and Andrea slipped inside, sending him a brief smile before she nodded at Rick and took a place next to T-dog.

"Shane?" Rick inquired, shoulders hunching forward like man bracing for the worst as he looked her over. His blue eyes dark underneath the fan of his lashes as one of his fists clenched and unclenched in his lap. The action rhythmic but cloying as he threw chance to the wind and levered himself up on his elbows. Tasting the unspoken tension in the air as the others looked from Rick to Andrea before darting away again.

There was something more going on here than they were telling, that was for damn sure.

"He just took over watch." Andrea replied. "Jimmy is keeping an eye Randall. ...I wanted to be here." She added, her tone hesitant but strong as she sent him an encouraging look from her position against the wall. All careless grace and smouldering fire as her strong blue eyes met his, one hip already cocked up against the dresser as she surveyed the room with a regal air. - And if he'd had the energy he might have smiled. It seemed as though she'd found that fire in her soul after all.

Good girl…

"Good, perhaps some time alone will give him a chance to think over a few things." Rick replied darkly, his expression turning uncommonly hard as he swiveled in his seat and stared out the window.

Christ, he'd only been gone for a fucking week! What had happened during that period to unsettle everyone so much? Things were different now, and not in a good way. He could practically taste it.

"Anything I should know about?" He asked, watching the worried expression on Glenn's face turn to guilt and then finally determination as the kid looked over at Rick from his position on the other side of the bed.

"Nothing that can't wait," Rick affirmed, apparently set on getting back to the matter at hand as he motioned for him to continue where he'd left off before Shane's outburst.

"…Like I said, he wanted information, about the farm and our supplies. He seemed dead set on having the place for himself after he'd seen it. – I didn't tell him anything. Even after he…well, let's just say he was very… persuasive when he wanted something." He replied with a wince. Easing himself back into the pillows as his ribs throbbed in heady agreement.

"Barbaric is more like it." Hershel added, speaking up from his position by the dresser, his long fingers trailing down the sides of a small silver flask almost consideringly before he placed it back in the drawer and closed it with a decisive snap.

"You don't want to know how many stitches and broken bones I had to mend once we'd got you back." Hershel continued, his voice thick and syrupy with fatigue as he ran a hand through his thinning hair. Mussing the stark white strands with a tired gesture before he pulled out his kerchief as wiped a blot of sweat from his forehead.

"I'll heal." He retorted. "And that's more than I can stay for all the other poor bastards that Manning and his boys got their hands on. I got off light in comparison, believe me. - They've have been at this for a long time." He added, holding back a wince as the bandages wrapped around his wrists chafed against the bedspread. Pulling at his ruined skin in a way that almost took him back there. Back to the moments were those damn ropes were cutting into his wrists, stained and frayed from where he'd bled right through them.

"Besides, their plans didn't end with me. Once I figured out what they were planning to do, I couldn't let that happen. So, I just took it, I tried to keep their focus on me. There was too much at stake." He explained, scratching at his cheek as stubble rasped across the edge of one of his bandages. Tickling the arch of his cheekbone as he settled back down into the blankets and continued despite his better judgement.

There was no use pussy footing around the truth. They had to know… If there were people like Manning out there already, and this close to home... Well, chances were that it wasn't safe here anymore. They were going to have to leave the farm. And probably sooner rather than later…

"...As you might have guessed, the supplies and the farm weren't all they wanted." He continued, toning turning vicious and acidic as his stomach churned in response. Having to pause for a long, stuttering breath as his ribs throbbed in warning, eyes flickering over in the direction of Carol and Andrea before he tore them away. Afraid of what he'd find there if he lingered.

"They had me blindfolded most of the time, but by the smell of it they'd been at this for a long time. They're scavengers. They've been preying on other groups, other survivors. ...People like us. - What happened to me is just their MO. They take one. Lure the others into a meeting and kill any of the men that don't agree with them." He rasped. Eyes fixed on his feet as the sheets rucked up past his ankles, revealing crooked toes and blackened nails as he wriggled them experimentally. Deliberately not looking at the others as he flexed his ankles experimentally, testing how badly sprained they were before wetting his lips and continuing.

"Anyone who is left alive when it's over… the women… probably wishes they'd had the opportunity to die with their men." He finished, his voice firm but rife with tension as Andrea's back stiffened. He couldn't bring himself to even look at Carol.

"Good lord... What has this world come too?" Hershel breathed, suddenly looking every one of his seventy odd years as he eased himself down onto one of the chairs set up against the wall and stared blankly at the floor. His expression caught between horror and disbelief as his handkerchief crumpled limply in his lap.

"I'm just glad y'all didn't fall for it. That 'ransom' shit was all just a part of their game. I was the bait and they were counting on you to come for me. It's how they reel you in. Playing on your weaknesses, they're counting on you to have a conscious, to have morals. It's why they win." He growled. Remembering the stiff rasp of fabric brushing across his pant legs as they'd dragged through the main doors, boots squeaking across the over waxed tiles as gravel and grit grated underneath his feet. Remembering with disturbing clarity how the sweet stink of decay had permeated the air around them as his captors had cut a path through the carnage.

Remembering how he'd suddenly felt grateful for the blindfold as the muffled snap of brittle bones and dried sinews cracked underneath his clumsy feet. The sound echoing horribly in the close space as his senses told him what his eyes could not.

Because the truth was that he hadn't needed eyes in that room to see. …To know what they'd done. He hadn't needed eyes to know that the bodies had probably been laid out in piles. Stacked one on top of the other as wide, sightless eyes stared out from between sprays of dried blood and fading bruises. To know how they'd gotten there and why, as the last moments of a hundred different lives flashed through his mind like film reel at the cinema. …The poor bastards.

"We nearly did." Rick remarked. Knee caps cracking in concert as he pulled himself upright and rejoined the conversation. "…At least until we caught them watching the farm."

"What?" He spat, wrenching himself upright as Hershel made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Ignoring the lot of them as he turned his attention back towards Rick.

"As far as I know, Manning didn't even know you were aware of it. He told me he had his people staking this place out not long after they tracked y'all back to the property line." He replied, interested now as he eased himself up on the mound of pillows. Taking another mouthful of water to cover a wince as his side began to kick up a fuss at the abuse.

"And that's how we kept it." Rick returned. His expression turning dark and strangely self satisfied as he rested his hands on his thighs, worrying the dirty material of his jeans for a long moment before continuing.

"We realized we had to act, and quickly. At that point we didn't know if you were still alive or where they were holding you if you were. But we figured we had to do something. Either way we needed more information, and there was only one way we were going to get it… at the source. So we turned the tables on them and gave them a shot of their own medicine." Rick explained, smiling over at Glenn as the kid smirked right back. Clearly sharing some sort of private joke before the Korean picked up where Rick had left off.

"Once we discovered they were watching us, we limited the number of people they saw. But made them think we were larger in number than we actually were. Making them think twice about an outright assault right from the beginning. We figured they wouldn't attack out right. And that they were more like an advance party than anything else. Looking for strengths and weaknesses, you know, that kind of stuff..." Glenn continued, scuffing the toe of his boot across the hardwood as he met his gaze. Eyes all wide, dark, and soulful in a way that made his heart clench in his chest.

But he shook it away, showing the kid his cheek when the overgrown runt had the audacity to stare. His expression far too close to that of pity for his liking as the kid's eyes fell on the swath of bandages wrapped around his head before lancing downward to a follow the vicious trail of cuts and bruises that trickled down the length of his torso. Coloring his skin in a wrecked canvas of sickening colors and stitched up gashes.

His lip curled. He didn't need pity, not from them, not from anyone, and least of all not from the kid. He had no use for it. Pity was akin to that of empty promises, useless and vapid, like substance without form or his crossbow without a bolt.

"A few days later we made them believe we were leaving." Rick interjected. "We made a big show about packing up, collecting gas, and boarding the place up. But in reality we were already one step ahead of them."

"They were so distracted by us leavin' that they didn't even notice it was all for show." T-dog added, picking up where Rick had trailed off before Andrea joined the fray.

"We put Jimmy in Rick's hat and jacket and had him lead Shane, Maggie, Beth, Patricia and Hershel into the cars at the last moment. Shuffling everyone around and generally making a big deal out of the entire thing in order to make it look like everyone had gotten into the vehicles." She explained.

"We sent the rest of the group into the back seats beforehand. But we parked close to the side of the house. You know, the side with the root cellar so it looked like the vehicles were packed to the brim when really they just slipped out the back and down into the cellar with our guests being none the wiser." Rick remarked, tone easy but strangely brittle all at the same time as he rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

"The rest you know, at least in part. We tricked them into thinking we'd all left. Most of them took the bait and drove off after Shane and the others, thinking they were heading for Fort Benning, which only left a handful for us to deal with. We tracked the duo watching the house back that old hotel they were all holed up in, and once we figured out where they were holding you we started planning how we'd get you out. It was a gamble but it paid off." The man finished, rubbing a hand across his face with an exhausted air. The corners of his eyes crinkling with exhaustion as the older man suppressed a yawn.

"After that, Manning's forces were divided. They obviously weren't expecting any resistance because most of them were chasing Shane and the others down the highway, leaving only a skeleton crew back at their headquarters. Hell, it was practically a fair fight by the time we broke in." Rick continued.

"Maggie and Shane managed to catch two of their advance scouts when they stopped to make camp at nightfall. And we used them to relay false updates to Manning and the others. So when he ordered his men to the back roads to ambush them we were all ready. With Manning's Intel we already knew what hand they were going to play, so we just manipulated the situation accordingly." Glenn added, fiddling with one of the knick-nacks on the dresser as he spoke.

"But even we can't take all the credit. His men were less than subtle. They were cocky, dumb, and they completely underestimated us. They thought they were getting the mother load, but instead Shane and the others led them right into a bottle neck of crashed cars and dead end streets that were packed to the brim with walkers." Andrea hummed.

He let go of the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding as the story wound down to a close. Shit. - He had to admit that he was impressed. 'Score one for the city folk.' He thought with a smile. Manning had made a serious mistake counting them out so easily, god knows he had once or twice in the past.

Christ…Manning.

He sobered instantly as the mere memory of the man came flooding back in a rush. Brutal and explosive as bile churned in the back of his throat. Threatening to rise up and overwhelm him completely as the question of the man's fate hung above his head with all the temerity of that same god damned meat hook they'd hung him from only a few days earlier. Glinting dully in the near dark as stain after stain of porous rust and old blood caked the low grade iron in an uneven layer of long dried fluids.

The man had to be dead…He had to be…If he wasn't he didn't know if he could cope with-…

"And Manning? Did you get him?" He demanded, having to force his hands to still as they fisted the coverlet. Teeth grinding together as a ripple of emotion surged through the others. The atmosphere in the room suddenly changing to that of discomfort and tension as Glenn opened his mouth as if to speak, before seeming to think better of it and closing it again.

For a long moment the group only exchanged a few harried looks. Veiled glances that flickered from face to face as expressions closed and half smiles evaporated from their lips like steam ghosting across the surface of a mirror after a long, hot shower. Falling silent until the absence of words grew stilted and thick, choking him from the inside out as his pulse hammered in his ears and the fingers on his unbroken hand clenched and unclenched like he was spoiling for a fight.

"…We don't know, Daryl." Rick said softly. His tone flat but gentle as Carol took an unconscious step forward. Her posture hesitant and uncertain as she looked from him to Rick and then back again. Her delicate, bird-like shoulders fluttering in place as she took a deep breath and stepped back. Worry and uncertainty etched across her face like something tangible as the little lines around her mouth deepened and grew.

But if anything, that only served to piss him off all the more. He hissed under his breath, but forced himself to hold his tongue. He wasn't made of glass, god damnit! - But losing his temper wouldn't do him any favors now, not if he wanted to get the truth out of them. Besides, this was his problem, his score to settle and no one else's.

A Dixon always cleaned up his own messes… One way or another.

"The truth is that we can't be sure. We killed our fair share coming in and what we didn't, the geeks took care for us as we escaped. The place was completely overrun. None of their vehicles were missing and we didn't see anyone leave the building alive. So I doubt anyone could have survived… - Hell, you're the only one of us who has actually seen the man. We wouldn't have known who we were looking for and there wasn't exactly time to stop and chat. There were only four men guarding the hallway where we found you, and none of them announced themselves." The ex-sheriff elaborated.

Fuck.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Flirting with the familiar taste of his own blood as a surge of heat flooded through him. …If Manning was still alive…

"If he wasn't dead before we left, the geeks got him. There's no way anyone got out of there alive. We hit the place without warning. Hell, we were halfway through the first six floors before anyone even saw us! There's no way that bastard as able to rabbit on us." T-dog affirmed. Voice strong and sure as his arms crossed over his chest. Posture so confident and self assured that for half a second he even believed him.

But he knew better. What's more, he knew Manning. If anyone could have survived that death trap it would have been him. The devil didn't always take back its own so easily, and he had a feeling that Manning was on the short list.

"My only regret is not being able to get to you sooner." Rick replied sorrowfully, shaking his head as if to rid himself of a bad memory as keen blue eyes met his. Moving on from the topic like the man considered the matter to be all but settled. As if the fact that Manning might still be out there wasn't cause for concern at all.

"I'm surprised you came at all." He finally grunted. Wincing internally as Glenn and Carol's faces fell, and the others closed off as the sentence came out far harsher than he'd intended.

Damnit…

He sighed, expelling a breath of air with a vicious hiss as frustration got the better of him. He'd never been good at this kind of shit, at emotions and expressing himself. He'd always managed to talk himself into dead ends and twist-tie corners that only ended up making the situation about ten times worse than it had been in the first place.. He was better at the simple shit, at action and reaction. Not trying to suss out another person's feelings or muddling his way through some obscure set of social cues that he didn't even understand let alone want to emulate.

"What I mean to say is… thank you. It was a big risk comin' after me. And all else considered, I'm glad you did." He finally replied. The words coming out slow and measured as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. To describe what it had felt like to breathe the open air and see them ringed around him. ...To do justice to the feeling...

But despite the stilted words and cut off syllables, he apparently managed to say the right thing after all, because before his wrecked voice could even so much as trail off, their smiles went supernova. - And he'd be god damned if the sight didn't warm him to the core. Lighting up his insides with liquid flame as the bright Georgian sun filtered in through the open window, coloring the room with a thousand different shades of gold and silver as the sunlight reflected off the glass.

And as the conversation slowly started up again, buzzing in the background in a low, pleasant haze as the others carried on about what had happened in his absence, infusing the moment with a constant stream of strangely welcome chatter. He couldn't help but pause and take it all in. Soaking in the intricacies of the moment as his bare legs stretched out underneath the sheets, toes curling luxuriously as something similar to contentment settled deep in his bones like that of a promise.

It had been a long time since he'd felt like this. Years even. Perhaps even as far back as to the days where his mama had still been alive. Back to those lazy popcorn afternoons and the moments where the clean smell of her hair had filtered through the air beside him. He'd paid good money trying to recapture that high, but he'd failed every time. He'd failed because it was the power of an idea rather than that of a physical thing. A sense of belonging and closeness that no drug could induce or drink could provide. - And now, for the first time in over a decade, in an impossible place, with equally as impossible people, and under even more impossible conditions, his blood was singing with it.

And that was something that Manning, dead or alive, could never take away from him…


	22. Chapter 22

He'd been up for a few hours after they'd left him to his own devices, propped up and drowsing against a pile of pillows that only seemed to get higher the more times he threw them over the side. It had something to do with Hershel, protecting his stitches, and a possible conspiracy to stifle him in his sleep by the women folk. He was too tired to really keep track.

He was stuffed full of leftovers and floating in that strange place that exists somewhere in between sleep and wakefulness when someone knocked on the door, only vaguely listening to the sounds of the others puttering around outside and thumping about downstairs. The heavy summer air alive with the sharp clatter of dishes and metallic click of metal grating against metal as the women washed dishes and Shane and T-dog tinkered around with the main generator.

"Com'in." He called, slurring the word only slightly as he made sure the sheets were pulled up to a descent level. Evidence enough that the pain killers the old man nearly force-fed him that morning were beginning to wear off.

He'd expected to see Carol, Rick, or hell even Hershel, but was surprised to see none of them. Instead it was that little wisp of a housewife, Patricia. A woman he'd barely spoken a handful of words too since they'd all arrived at the Green farm. She was an understatedly pretty woman with dirty blond hair and wide blue eyes that often looked far too big for her face, making her look innocent and young despite her years.

She ducked her head and sent him a small smile as she stepped inside. Her long blue dress swirling around her legs as she set a stack of clean clothes on the chair beside the bed. Collecting his plate and glass from the bedside table before she paused in mid-motion, setting the dishes back down again as she looked him over with a soft, but critical eye.

She stared and he stared right back, completely nonplussed as her hands came up to rest on her hips, keeping his eyes firmly on her face as she cocked her head and bit her lip. Looking almost as if she were considering something as she took a small step forward, the movement slow and measured, almost as if she knew what he was thinking long before the sudden thrum of discomfort had a chance to start hushing through his veins.

It wasn't until the hairs on the back of his neck started prickling that his mind brought him screeching back to the present. What was she thinkin' staring at him like that? Gawkin' at him and shit? He was just about to comment on it, maybe even tell her to get lost when she finally spoke.

"I think you could do with a hair cut." She remarked somewhat matter of factedly, her words coming so completely out of the blue that they rendered him momentarily speechless. All too aware of the way her blue eyes lingered over the messy thatch of dark brown hair that hung over his eyes as he glared up at her through the fan of his lashes.

He stared, still half doped up and stupid with sleep as the little twig of a woman just leaned in, as cool as you please, and fingered one of the awkward feathers of his the strands that had grown unhindered down the back of his neck before spidering back up to ruffle through the rest of it. Taking it in for what it was, tangled up mat that stood up in all directions due to its length and the way the bandage had been wrapped around his temples.

Christ.

They stared at each other for a long moment before he replied, spending just as long trying to get the words out as he did attempting to figure out what she meant by the offer itself. What was her motive, if any? What did she want? What did she have to gain? And when it all came down to it, what did he have to lose?

"…Alright." He replied cautiously. Spine ram-rod straight against the pillows as the small smile she'd been holding on to finally reached her eyes, back-lighting them with something close to contentment as she leaned over and retrieved the dishes with a noticeable sway of her hips. Clearly pleased at his acceptance as she balanced the precariously stacked tray with apparent ease.

Because really, what else could he say?

"I'll just get my cutters." She replied sweetly. Sweeping through the threshold with a graceful hush of fabric brushing against fabric as her skirts flared around her slender calves.

And strangely enough, it took until she'd bustled out of the room and started down the stairs, for him to realize that somewhere in between the sensation of her fingers running through his hair and that brilliant, understated little smile of hers; he'd forgotten how to flinch.

Lord.

He wasn't sure what had possessed him to say yes, but when faced with the reality that he had, he figured there was nothing else left to do but face it gracefully. …Or something. For fucks sakes…didn't he have enough on his plate then to be subject to some woman's whims?

His ears were burning by the time he levered himself upright and swung his legs around the side of the bed, sitting up in nothing but a pair of johns as he drew the blanket around his waist and waited. Ribs throbbing distantly as he slowly began testing his sore muscles and mending bones, eager to get out this sick bed and back into the swing of things. At least then he'd have something to take his mind off of everything that had happened. Even to him it was a small comfort, but for the moment it was all he had.

She returned a few minutes later lugging a large porcelain basin, a pitcher, and small stack of towels. He took the basin without comment and willed himself to relax; watching out the corner of his eye as she grabbed an apron from the stack of towels, folded it in half and tied it around her waist. Taking a small pair of stylists scissors, a comb, and a few odds and ends out of a small case as she set them down on the bed beside him.

It seemed like only seconds later that she came around the side of the bed and stood in front of him. Gently undoing the bandage wrapped around his head before she wet the comb and began teasing it through his hair, patiently working out all the tangles and snarls until a steady tickle of water started running down the back of his neck.

"I used to do this for Otis all the time." She offered after a few minutes, pausing to wrap a towel around his neck before she continued wetting his hair. "They never could get it to look right at the Barbers." She hummed softly. Voice feather-light and lilting as her soft breath ghosted across the scrapped skin of his scalp. Wincing only slightly when the comb accidentally ran over the odd bump or cut.

He didn't know what to say to that so he just kept quiet. Figuring it was safer to keep his thoughts to himself as he let the woman work. Saying nothing but giving up more of himself than he'd originally intended as he let her cant his head this way, then that. The trailing ends of her long blond hair feathering across the nape of his neck like a caress as she leaned over the basin in his lap in order to reach.

He couldn't help but draw in a breath when she moved closer, the swell of her breasts grazing across the skin of his forearms as she hummed under her breath. Swallowing hard when he took in the scent of her as some long dormant part of him smouldered to life, and memories he figured he'd long forgotten swirled behind his tightly closed lids.

Because she smelled like lavender, freshly pressed and still tangy with the scent of fertile soil and baked earth. Like everything that could have been, but wasn't. Like missed chances and harsh childhood lessons. …Jesus H. Christ, she smelled so-

The soft snick-snick of the scissors was nearly swallowed by the encompassing silence as the basin in his lap grew dark with the tufts of his shorn hair. The whole process was strangely cathartic, and soon enough he lost himself in it. Forgetting where he was and who he was with in favor of drinking in the sensation. - The feeling of soft hands and gently curved nails pressing into his scalp, moving through his hair almost rhythmically until he felt like a big ol' tom cat soaking in a sunbeam. Lazy and blissful as the diminutive little woman set about ridding him of at least half a years worth of weather damaged hair.

Hell, he couldn't even remember when he'd last had a hair cut, let alone one that didn't come from his own efforts with an electric razor and a small pair of scissors. He'd never been to anything but a Barbers shop only a handful of times that he could remember, and none of them had been anything like this.

His lids felt criminally heavy by the time she'd finished. Inexplicably soothed by the soft towel she rubbed across his neck and the gentle fingers that ran through his hair like a pulse as she rubbed a handful of soap into his scalp before rinsing it out again with the pitcher of water. She repeated the action a few more times before she seemed satisfied, lathering him up and wetting him down for the last time like it was some sort of strange, sit up wash. Spiking the freshly cut strands before smoothing them down again, clearly arranging it the way she saw fit as she rubbed the towel across his scalp, careful of the cuts and bruises as she ran a comb through his hair and stepped back with an accomplished sigh.

He blinked up at her as she moved the basin off his lap, motioning for him to sit still as she walked over to the dresser and fished out a bundle of gauze and a rolled up tensor bandage. And much like before he simply stayed quiet and watched her work. Keen gaze taking in the practiced way she daubed Neosporin into the cut on his forehead and carefully re-wrapped the wound on his temple. Tending to him like it was as natural as breathing as he let her work unhindered.

A few months ago he wouldn't have stood for this sort of shit. He probably wouldn't have stayed still long enough to have a conversation with any of them, let alone allow them tend to him like this. And looking back on it now he realized how wrong that attitude had been. - Apparently he wasn't the same person he'd been before the Grim Reaper had decided to take a fuckin' holiday. None of them were.

…Ironic how ones priorities tend to change along with the end of the world…

It wasn't until she'd collected the dirty bandages and placed the pitcher in the basin that she spoke again. But in reality she didn't need to, he understood the intricacies of the moment better than most. But most of all, whether he liked it or not, he also understood what that moment had meant, perhaps even to both of them. It was about healing, solace, and a thousand other different words that all summed up to the same thing. The realization that despite all they'd lost, despite all the shit and all the death, none of them was really alone.

Not anymore.

"You rest now, ya' hear? The world will still be here when you wake up." She chided softly, crossing the room to close the drapes, before sending him a small smile as she flitted over to collect her things. Closing the door behind her with a gentle snap as the sound of her low, lilting hums floated through the air in her wake.

It wasn't until she was safely out of hearing that he snorted out a tired, mirthless little laugh. …That was mighty bold talk these days.

But hell if he didn't do just that, muscles loosening like a compulsion as he sunk back down into the pillows. One hand curled around the sheath of his buck knife as the Sandman met him halfway, spiriting him off into slumber with hardly a word to the contrary.


	23. Chapter 23

He woke up halfway through the night with the overwhelming need to piss. Startling himself awake the same moment a car door slammed and the sound of raised voices floated in through the open window. Winding down into angry murmurs and forced whispers as the first slam was quickly followed by a second. This one clearly conscious of the late hour as the door opened, then closed before the sound of uneven footsteps began crunching up the gravel drive.

It was only when he picked up Glenn and Rick's voices from the garbled mess of angry tones and cut off exclamations that he slowly relaxed. Fingers uncurling from around the handle of his knife as he slowly slid it back into its sheath. The hairs on the back of his neck prickling as the tangible shiver of metal rasping against metal vibrated through the air with an eerie screech.

'...Gettin' a might jumpy there eh Dixon? What are you so afraid of?' A little voice teased, 'What's next? Jumping at your own shadow?" It taunted. Tone cruel and biting as he curled his lip and shook his head, stopping the thought in its tracks in favor of turning onto his side and staring out into the moonlight.

He breathed in slowly and deliberately, forcing his racing heartbeat to slow as he blinked into the relative darkness. Rubbing his hands across his face, he weighed the merits of just staying put. Finding himself far too comfortable to move as he let the tension drain out of him. Slumping down against the pillows as the heels of his palms dug into his eyes and his vision blacked out with the pressure.

It was a nice sentiment, but as so often was the case, Mother Nature was not to be denied. Because only a few moments later he was pulling himself upright, blinking away the stars as he shook his head and threw back the covers. Bladder putting up a righteous fuss about the whole affair as every muscle in his body seemed to seize up on sheer principal.

The meds had definitely worn off, that was for damn sure.

He got to his feet gingerly. Shoring himself up as he swung his legs across the bed and grabbed a pair of sweat pants and a black long sleeve shirt from the stack of clothes that Patricia had left out for him. Pointedly ignoring the way his ribs throbbed as he pulled them on and got to his feet, bare feet hushing across the carpet as he made for the bathroom. His path lit up like a beacon as a few errant fingers of moonlight glowed in the near dark.

He stumbled a bit when he reached the door, both hands curling around the wooden frame with an awkward fumble as he lost his balance and nearly fell. Sore knees banging against the wall in way that made him exhale with a pained hiss. Shit, that hurt.

He forced himself to remain upright. Clawing at the frame with a brutal, jerky little movement until he regained his balance. Angry at himself more than anything else as his body refused to work the way he knew it should. - For fucks sakes, he was getting' soft. He should have been up and about by now, regardless of how bad Manning had put him through the wringer.

He managed to make it to the bathroom without incident, emptying his bladder with a near audible sigh of relief. Before spending the next five utterly frustrating minutes struggling to hit the flush with his uninjured hand and keep his balance at the same time. He hiked the pair of sweat pants higher on his hips as he shuffled over towards the sink. Trying to ignore the frayed edges and loose elastic that flirted with the arch of his hips until he finally grabbed the knot and yanked it tight. Looping the string into a makeshift knot and effectively ending any further fuss as the baggy pants pulled as tight as they would go.

It didn't occur to him until he was halfway through washing his hands that they'd probably belonged to Otis.

He was drying his hands on a towel when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, unable to help the choked off little sound that emerged as he took himself in for the first time since the kidnapping. There was hardly a patch of skin that wasn't beaten to shit, swollen, cut up, or in some way marred. From head to hands and likely beyond, he was a multi-hued canvas of raw skin, wicked bruises, and healing wounds. It was almost breathtaking in its brutality.

What a fucking mess…

He looked like death warmed up, and according Hershel that was an improvement. - But even then he took it all in blandly. Almost as if he were looking at someone else as his fingers probed a few healing scrapes, skirting around the edges of cuts and bruises that practically glowed in the low light, lancing across the span of his left cheekbone in a tangle of ruby slices and angry purple and green highlights.

Funny, he didn't remember getting that one..

He looked like he'd been broken apart and painstakingly remade. Indeed the metaphor seemed all too appropriate considering the circumstances. Even he had to admit that the allusion was generous at best. He looked like fuckin' road kill.

He knew he should probably just go back to bed. But when he reached the foot of the stairs, he paused at the crossroads. Looking left, right and finally straight ahead, before something had him starting south. Palming the railing with careful grace as he slowly started down the stairs. It was slow going, but he made progress, bare feet curling into the carpet as bruised toes sussed out the way by feel alone. - Remembering just in time as he braced himself against the wall and skipped the eighth step with practiced ease. It creaked loudly enough to wake up the entire house if you landed on it right.

He should have gone back to bed, but he didn't, suddenly driven by the need to be outside. Feelin' cooped up and restless as every fiber of his being screamed for the open air. To feel the dirt underneath his feet, and the slick of pine sap between his fingers. To breathe in the fresh air and know deep down to his fucking bones that this wasn't all just a dream or some terrible, macabre illusion.

He had to make it real.

Glenn was sitting in the porch chair when he finally reached the deck. The muscles in his legs trembling at the strain as he caught sight of the kid standing watch. His figure illuminated by a single kerosene lantern as he rocked absentmindedly in the chair set up by the door, the faint outline of Shane's Mossberg leaning up against the wall beside him as the kid stared out into the darkness.

"Doesn't anyone ever sleep around here?" He grunted, easing himself down into the chair beside him with a cut off grimace. Feeling the stitches in his side pull uncomfortably tight as he pulled himself into a more comfortable position. Watching with no small measure of satisfaction as Glenn visibly jumped, obviously taken by surprise as he'd slowly made his way around the wrap around porch.

And really, he wouldn't have had it any other way.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Glenn squeaked. Setting something he couldn't quite make out on the floor at his feet as he startled in place. Ass hovering somewhere in between sitting and standing as he collapsed into the chair beside him. Pretending to ignore the kid's guilty look as the man tried to shove whatever it was that he was hiding farther underneath the table.

"Spare me the den mother routine, short stop," He snorted; testing the give of his stitches as he leaned back against the cushions, "…I'm busted up, not an invalid."

"Yeah, but… dude. No offense, but weren't you basically half dead three days ago?" Glenn shot back, wiping oily hands on a filthy rag before tossing it on the table with a careless gesture.

"That's a matter of opinion. And besides, isn't it past your bedtime?" He shot back, smirking a bit as the kid rolled his eyes in response. Bickering back and forth as he realized the whole exchange was surprisingly effortless. As if he'd been talking to the kid his entire life rather then, well, not very much at all.

"'- Either way, I've had worse." He continued, ignoring the slight tremble that wracked through him as he leaned back against the head rest and forced himself to breathe. - Christ, he was practically wiped just from walking down the god damned stairs.

You've really done a number on yourself this time, haven't you Dixon?

"Oh yeah, when?" The kid asked, tone laced with playful sarcasm as he ran a hand through his hair and mashed his cap back down on his head.

Well fuck, he had him there.

He grunted something unintelligible in response. But the kid just laughed.

"Is that my bow?" He finally asked, seizing on the first piece of conversation he could think of that didn't involve losing face. Raising a pointed brow when he finally recognized what the kid had been working on before his arrival.

His bow? Why would the kid have his bow? Hell, he would have thought Manning and his pack of dip shits would have snagged it when they'd taken him. Waste not, want not and all that.

"Oh, um..yes. I figured it was the least I could do. …You know, considering everything that happened." Glenn responded, scuffing the toe of his sneaker across the flaking white-wash paint, sending wooden splinters scattering across the porch like some old soothsayer scattering his bag of bones to tell a fortune. Eyes downcast and conflicted as the kid looked down at his feet.

It took him a moment, but when realization hit, it was like getting a two by four square in the kisser. - Oh hell no. The kid thought this whole cluster fuck was somehow his fault? Figures, the kid had a morality complex that was starting to give even Grimes a run for his money.

The low light from the lantern flickered, separating the shadows that lingered around the edges of the dark. Glinting in a wreath of grey as the shadows yawned and grew. Seeming to get closer every time the lantern hissed and wavered, threatening them with the dark. The kid didn't even seem to notice, but he did.

Because he knew a thing or two about darkness, he knew how to move within it without leaving a trace. He knew how to see in the pitch black, but not be seen. - He knew that there were different kinds and that a bit of darkness existed within all of them, with each of them guilty of something in someway. But what he didn't accept was when the darkness twisted. Like right here and right now where misplaced guilt had started growing to the level of self-laid blame.

This wasn't the kid's fault anymore than it was his. There was only one man that was to blame for this and that was Manning himself. A man who'd probably already paid for his crimes a few times over if what the others said was correct. And whether that was by bullet or by bite it didn't much matter, just so long as the sick bastard was dead and gone.

"Say the world gets better. Say we turn things around, find a cure and things start getting back to normal again. Say that we even figure out who is responsible for all this. If we did, would you want them punished? Would you want them held accountable for their actions?" He finally asked. Muddling his way through the first few words before his voice grew strong. Putting voice to something he'd long considered as he sought to make the kid understand.

"Wouldn't you?" Glenn deflected. Knee jumping nervously before he reaching down and picking up the crossbow on impulse, busying his hands as he snagged the scrap of cloth and resumed cleaning. Oiling the gears with a determination of purpose that said more than if the kid had had actually spoken up at all.

"Even if it was an accident? What if the poor bastard responsible for all this wasn't really at fault at all? What if it was a computer malfunction or an unpredictable chain of events and circumstances that led to all this? Hell, what if this was genetic? What if it was some sort of biological disease that was simply carried around by some poor bastard until it mutated and affected the population at large?" He demanded, forcing his breathing to even as he continued. The kid had to understand…

"What if the person responsible is long dead? Or simply the last patsy left alive from whatever organization or group accidentally set this whole thing off? Say that you find him, but what if he just mopped the god damned floors? What if he was just a regular nine to fiver working for a crappy pay check and even worse hours, and had nothing to do with anything that happened in the first place. Would you still want that person punished? Would you still want them to suffer?" He asked, taking it as a good sign when the kid's hands slowed, clearly listening now as the low hum of insects rose and fell around them.

"See? Blame is a tricky thing, it 'aint black and white, or even easy. No matter how much we want it to be." He continued quietly.

"…And the truth is that you're no more to blame for this than I am. Even less so I'd reckon since I managed to antagonize the sadistic little bastard more than once. - The only person to blame for this is some FEMA jerk off who ate crazy for breakfast. And don't you dare forget that." He insisted, letting a measure of heat enter his tone as he stared the kid down.

"Do you want to know the only reason why I got back home?" He asked. Tone just shy of scathing as the memory of Manning's smug face flashed across his vision with frightening clarity. Over exposed and sharp as the after image flickered and warped in the very corners of his vision.

When Glenn stayed quiet he continued, pressing the issue with a vehemence that his posture didn't match. Willing the tension out of him as he remained where he was, slumped back against the thin cushion as his skin molded into the wooden grooves, staring off into the tree line as he masked the memories with that of hard worn composure and sheer bull-headed determination.

"It was you… Not Rick, or T-dog, or Andrea, but you Glenn. ...Why? It's simple. You followed orders, I told you to head back to the farm to get the others and you did. If you had been there when they'd ambushed me we would have both been snatched. Rick and the others would have never had a lead or even a place to start lookin'. They would have come into this cluster fuck stone blind." He affirmed. Doing his best to make the kid understand as he dug his nails into the arm rests. Trying and failing to gain some sort of traction as his insides twisted themselves into knots.

Manning.

"If I had been there we might have been able to take them! Maybe between the two of us we would have been able to get away." Glenn protested. His voice earnest and slightly haunted as his hands curled into fists, abandoning all pretense of working as he turned around to face him.

"To where? Manning and his crew would have still been out there. They were already watchin' us. They've known about us ever since the RV broke down on the god damned highway. It was only a matter of time before they found the farm and attacked." He pointed out.

"…Hell, this whole fiasco probably saved all our lives." He finished. Clearing his throat roughly as his voice took on a low, raspy quality reminiscent of exhaustion and a few decades worth of a pack a day habit that had only ended along with the rest of the world. When scavenging for smokes had proved to be too much of a risk just for the sake of satisfying a simple craving.

Going cold turkey had been a bitch, but he figured he was better off for it. His sinuses had eventually cleared and he had to admit that food had never tasted so good. It had taken him a while to get over it, but now that he had he doubted he'd ever start back up again. Give him a two six of rum and a six pack of beer any day, but he'd probably never light up again. It reeked of dependency, an addiction that took away more than it gave back.

Still, there were days that he missed it. That he missed the harsh tang of seared chemicals and the hot flare of freshly lit nicotine. That he missed the weight of a cig between his lips and the way the bitter smoke would expand outward, settling deep in his lungs before he finally exhaled. Feeling the sweetness spread all the way down to his toes as his lashes fluttered in pleasure.

God, did he miss it.

"…And I don't know about you, but considering the way things worked out, a few broken bones and some stitches seems like a pretty small price to pay. Don't you think?" He offered getting the hint of a smile in return as Glenn shifted in his seat. His posture relaxing, if only slightly as the kid started back to work on cleaning out the gears.

And he might have even smiled back. Taking cover in the low light as the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

They say that it's easier to tell a lie then it is to tell the truth. But in his experience, it was the opposite that generally held true. - Sure, telling a lie usually was easier, at least on the surface. But if you wanted to get down to the heart of the matter, to dig hard and dig deep until you were so far gone that there was only one course left to you, you had to tell the truth. Because in order to make people believe in something…to feel it and know it as intimately as one could ever know such a thing, it had to be true.

Of course, the irony was that few people chose to believe the truth, especially when it comes from someone like him. Even when the proof was staring them right in the face. - So, in that regard he supposed he was lucky that the kid was still naive enough to take him at face value. Because he knew what it was like to live with guilt, both false and deserved. And that was a feeling that he wouldn't wish on anyone.

Save for maybe Manning himself of course…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference: Along with all the other side effects, prolonged smoking can also drastically alter a smoker's taste buds, rendering food not as flavorful, significantly alter the taste of food, and etc.


	24. Chapter 24

He was about to say something more, but was distracted when the sound of an argument reached him. It was coming from farther down the driveway, over where most of the cars were parked. But despite the fact that they couldn't actually see what was going on, it didn't take much effort to figure out who was causing all the ruckus.

They caught the argument when it was already in full swing. Missing the beginning as the sound of raised voices and angry words carried in the relative quiet. And almost as if it were some sort of compulsion, they fell silent and listened. Squinting vainly into the gloom as the voices echoed in the eves, twisting and reshaping the words until it was almost impossible to pin point the direction.

"…Daryl has my trust Shane, our trust. What has he ever done to lose yours?" Rick exclaimed. Voice rising in pitch as it neared the end. Tone colored with frustration and anger as the sound of fist slamming into the hood of one of the cars made the kid jump, ringing out with a vicious, fleshy sound that made him wince in sympathy.

"Lose it? He never had it Rick! Trust has to be earned." Shane replied flatly.

"That's pretty rich coming from you don't you think?" Rick shot back, "Trust also has to be maintained. And Daryl has done just as much, if not more than any of us to protect this group. His loyalty is not in question, nor is his worth or his character. End of discussion." Rick bit off.

"What are you tryin' to say, man?" Shane hissed vehemently, tone all but screaming instability as his words echoed despite the distance. "That you don't trust me anymore? That you think he's worth more than me?"

"Shane, for god sakes, I didn't say that," Rick replied, going quiet for a long moment before starting up again. "…You saw what it was like when he was gone. The group practically fell apart. We were directionless, scattered. We lost our center and none of us were prepared for it. None of us expected it. - I suppose none of us really knew what he meant and how strongly he fit together with the rest of us until he was suddenly gone." The ex-sheriff insisted. Words hard-edged but thoughtful as he expelled an audible breath of air before muttering something neither of them could catch.

"That's bullshit man. He's playin' you for a fool. Mark my words; he's going to bite the hand that feeds 'im." Shane predicted darkly. Obviously responding to whatever Rick had said as the taller man let go of a biting curse.

"Shane, from where I'm sitting there is only one person trying to do that and he's standing right here in front of me. …Brother, listen to yourself. We have to pull together, not apart. – Besides, in case it has escaped your notice, most times it is Daryl that feeds us. Not the other way around." Rick returned.

"Yeah, well the funny thing about that is this is a mistake. One big mistake in a long line of mistakes that didn't seem to start happening until you arrived, Rick." Shane spat, tone so caustic and unstable that he had to hold himself back from rising in his chair.

No, this wasn't his business. They obviously had somethin' to get off their chests, and this was as good a time as any. In the meantime, he'd wait and see how it all played out.

"Shane, you don't mean that…" Rick began, clearly struggling for composure as emotion turned the words into something raw and almost broken as a heavy sigh coasted through the air around them. Wafting back towards them on the tail end of a sudden breeze, almost as if nature herself stood stunned amidst the aftermath.

"You know, I've been asking myself that a lot over the past few weeks." Shane started, "And the only answer I have, the only answer that makes sense, is that I do mean it. - I took care of them, kept them safe and now most of them are dead. No one started dying until you showed up. You and the fuckin' horse you rode in on man! You didn't know shit about what had happened. About how things had changed and you didn't even stop to ask! – You just bulldozed your way through and expected everything to go your way!" Shane growled.

"You're responsible for their deaths. Not me. That's all on you brother." He finished aggressively. Tone laced with venom and a barely restrained temper as a stifling silence stretched out between them in lue of words.

The kid shifted awkwardly beside him. Face scrunched up in a worried frown as he squinted off in the direction the words had come from. Right knee jumping at every odd beat until Rick cleared his throat and made to speak.

"Whatever you're planning Shane, it's got to stop. We have to find some middle ground here or we're going to end up right back where we started. Brawling and fighting each other when we tried to drop Randal off at that middle school." Rick replied coolly, sounding remarkably level-headed considering the circumstances.

"Now I say we cut Randal loose. Far away from the farm, like Dale wanted. - Besides, the kid was probably with Manning's group and we dealt with them ourselves. There isn't anyone left for the kid to report back too." Rick cautioned, having apparently decided to ignore Shane's words in favor of getting back to the heart of the argument.

This was all about Randal? …Figures. They should just cut the kid loose and be done with it. Rick was right, if the little brat had been with Manning, he didn't have anyone left to run back too. The kid wasn't worth a bullet anymore than killing him was worth the resulting moral struggle. The kid was baggage either way.

"Oh yeah? Well I disagree!" Shane hissed. "I say we deal with this right here and right now. He is a threat Rick, why can't you see that?!"

"This isn't up for discussion, Shane." Rick grated, voice disturbingly hushed as the sound of angry boot heels rasped across loose gravel as one of them moved away.

"Don't you walk away from me Rick; you don't get to that man, not to me!" Shane growled.

"I wasn't the one that took the first step Shane. Remember that." Rick replied, voice thick with emotion but noticeably growing fainter as the man began to walk away.

"But you're taking the last one aren't you... You bast-" Shane flung back, the rest of his response muffled by a sudden gust of wind that sent dust and grit sweeping across the gravel drive as he fought to hear Rick's reply.

"Am I?" Rick questioned, his words quickly followed by a muffled thump and a curse as though someone had just kicked something hard and immovable and regretted it. - Their voices growing fainter by the minute until the occasional flicker of a flashlight that had marked their place was eventually swallowed in the encompassing dark.

...And good riddance to that, he'd heard enough. Just about all he could stand if he was being honest…

"Have they been carrying on like this ever since I've been gone?" He asked, doing his best to ignore it when the argument started up again. Slowly fading off into obscurity as the two men walked out of their hearing.

"Worse." Glenn replied emphatically. His forehead scrunched up in a worried frown that made him look about a decade too young, all wide eyed and earnest like a child that was being forced to listen to his parents fight. - But he only really started paying attention when the kid opened his mouth as if to say something more before pausing in mid-breath, looking antsy and uncomfortable as he shifted awkwardly in his seat.

There was more here than the kid was tellin'… But what?

"Things have been bad here. Ever since Dale…and then when they took you, well… Things kinda fell apart." Glenn sighed, speaking up as though he had somehow read his thoughts as he cocked his head towards him.

He didn't ask what had happened. He didn't want to know. - He only grunted in response. Thinking the kid's words over carefully as the core of it simmered in the back of his mind. …Because really, he just hadn't seen that one coming.

Hell, he usually went out of his way to avoid people, not gain a fucking fan club. Ever since the barn he'd tried to pull away, deciding to cut his losses before the others could do anymore damage. - He'd gone and put his all into something, investing a part of himself that he hadn't allowed himself express in years and he'd gotten burned for it. …Burned by the mere ghost of a little girl with long, colt-like limbs and messy corn silk hair. Because all else considered he'd nearly lost himself when they'd put her into the ground. He'd finally let himself give a damn about someone and look what it'd gotten him? Fucking nothing.

And now it seemed as though he was about to go and do the same goddamn thing. Invest himself in people that could be gone tomorrow. – But the ironic thing was that for some strange, utterly incomprehensibly reason, it didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have. Christ, he was getting' soft.

It wasn't until Glenn smothered his third yawn with the back of his hand that he spoke again. Eying the kid out of the corner of his eye as the Korean leaned slightly to port, obviously exhausted as he blinked rapidly and fiddled with the lantern. - Smearing grease all over his hands as he threaded the cleaning cloth between his fingers and back again.

"Go'on. I'll take watch." He grunted, startling the kid from whatever head space he'd been caught in as he looked over at him in clear indecision. Tempted but not yet convinced.

"Dude, are you sure? I mean, you're still all…well..um." Glenn began, only to trail off when words failed him. Wiping oily hands on his jeans as the kid sat up straighter in his chair.

"Busted up?" He supplied. Raising a faintly irritated brow when the kid stayed planted.

"Yeah, that's one of the words I would use for it. Besides, Carol and Hershel would have my head if they found out. Yours too if they find out you're even out of bed." Glenn cautioned, speaking in hushed tones as if he feared that by simply invoking their names would somehow bring their wrath down on both of them.

"What they don't know won't hurt 'em. - Besides, I've spent the past few days on my back, drugged up to the gills and sleeping it off. What I need right now is a bit of fresh air." He began; gnawing at his lower lip as he leaned forward and looked up at the sky, ignoring the kid completely as he noted the position of the moon on the horizon.

Dawn wasn't far off anyway.

"I aint gunna sit inside and do nothin' forever… - There's what? Only two hours left on your watch left before Andrea takes over? I can handle it, now go on, git." He urged, flicking a half annoyed - half amused hand in the kid's general direction as Glenn hovered indecisively.

"Alright, fine. But it's your ass man. Carol is meaner than she looks." He joked, collecting his things, but leaving both the Mossberg and bow behind as he shook his head and waved the kid off.

The screen door opened, signalling the kid's exit. But just as he was about to go through it, he stopped and leaned back around the door jam. Pausing for a long moment before something set in the back of his eyes. Clearly shoring himself up for something major as Glenn made a small noise in the back of his throat and deliberately caught his gaze.

"…And Daryl? It's good to have you back." He offered warmly. Expression so bitingly sincere that it made his throat tighten, forcing him to swallow hard over a sudden lump as he cleared his throat and nodded in kind.

Because all else considered, it was the truth.

"Likewise kid, likewise." He murmured. Voice raw and gravely as the kid threw down the sentence like it hadn't cost him anything at all. - But then again, perhaps that was the point. It wasn't about cost, only truth; the shit that really matters in life.

And if he listened to the sound of the kid's footsteps as he closed the door and climbed the stairs. Half stumbling as he lurched forward just in time to miss the eighth step before crossing the hall towards the john; well, he decided not to read anything more into it then he was willing to admit to himself.

He stayed propped up in that rocking chair long after the first rays of dawn started streaking across the late summer sky. Feeling strangely centered as his fingers took up the task of fixing the bow where the kid had left off, oiling the gears and painstakingly straightening a few bent slates as the sun slowly rose and daylight reclaimed Southern Georgia.

He took it all in silently. As close to reverent as he figured a man like him could get. Fingers pausing in concert as a herd of deer crept out of the bushes that marked the edge of the front pasture, soft ears twitching something fierce as they started rooting around in the long glass for tender new shoots and stray crab apples. With a few of the females even going so far as to nuzzle their youngins' towards the salt slicks as the buck raked his antlers across the big oak that stood at the perimeter of the forest. Ripping the bark clear off the sides in a show of dominance as he huffed and pawed at the ground, fixing him with a suspicious look from clear across the property before he trotted back towards his ladies, All of them healthy, fat, and numerous in the absence of human interference.

He stayed on watch until the sound of running water and creaking floorboards started echoing throughout the house. Managing to remain undiscovered for close to an hour after Patricia and Beth started banging around in the kitchen, before finally being spotted by Carol and Andrea after they unzipped themselves from their tents and started towards the house. Sending him packing with clucking tongues and subtle bullying as Hershel joined the fray and started adding his alarmist mutterings into the mix as the old man carried on about pulled stitches and young men that didn't know what was good for them.

He accepted the coddling with surprising grace. Figuring it was better to just go along with it as Andrea took over watch and others did their best to flush him through the living room and towards the stairs like a hunting dog stalking a clutch of wild geese. - But for all their efforts he nearly got ham-stringed halfway across the parlor as Jimmy and Beth darted out from behind a half closed door. Getting the stink eye from Hershel as the old man started laying into the two of them, guilty blushes and all.

It was just so ridiculous that he even went so far as to exchange a raised brow with Glenn as they passed in the hallway. Unable to suppress a smirk as Glenn grinned back and whispered "busted" at him playfully before he whipped around the corner and out of sight, almost taking out Lori and Carl in the process as he beat the boy to the stairs and started an impromptu racing match that ended up waking up the whole god damned house.

He might have even laughed if he hadn't been positive that at least half his stitches would have ripped clear out of his side at the strain.

In the end, he didn't even so much as make it to the foot of the stairs let alone the bedroom. Instead he got herded into the dining room for an early breakfast as the smell of fried ham and freshly cut peaches wafted through the air with an undeniably delicious aroma. - In fact, save for Shane and whoever had taken over on watch, it seemed as though everyone was there. Tramping down from their beds with impossibly wide yawns and grouchy expressions, running tired fingers through their sleep mussed hair as they made noise about coffee refills and the possibility of real tea for a change.

All it in, it made breakfast a noisy, confused affair where dishes of eggs, tinned ham, weak coffee, and pitchers of milk were practically flowing off the table. Where everyone was talking at once and no one was listening. Expelling words that compounded in on themselves until the whole house echoed to the eves with tired murmurs and cut off laughter. Where for the first time in a long time, everyone was laughing, yawning, grinning, and stuffing their faces with what was probably the most piece-meal breakfast he'd ever eaten in his entire life.

Where people filled up his plate for him before he could even ask for seconds and he found his mouth engaged for far more than eating as conversation ebbed and flowed around the table as coffee cups were topped up and fresh biscuits were pulled out of the depths of the oven.

It was chaotic, noisy, irritating, and far too homey for his tastes but he stayed until his eyes started drooping. Watching the aftermath with keen interest as T-dog and Glenn tried to convince Carol into making more biscuits. Plying the woman with flattery until her pretty little cheeks all but glowed with the attention. Finding himself unable to tear himself way as everyone started discussing their tasks for the day. Talking about everything from shoring up the barn for winter to wondering if they could risk turning the generator on for an extra hour that night so that Lori, Carol, and Patricia could do the washing in a real machine rather than by hand.

Because all else considered, despite the fact that the world had gone and ended on them, it was moments like this that made what they had left feel just shy of fucking glorious.


	25. Chapter 25

The day it happened, he was up to his elbows in engine oil and gear grease. Clothing stained through with blots of brake fluid and questionable black smudges that were smeared all the way up the length of his forearms. The muscles in his arms bunching and releasing as he wrestled with a stubborn brake line, scraping away at the oxidized metal as he cursed his brother and his apparent inability to maintain his own god damned bike six ways to Sunday.

It had been close to a week since that morning at breakfast. A solid week that had passed by largely unmarked, laced together in a muted whirl of hyperactivity and slowly mounting concern. Almost as if some higher power was holding their breath, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was the waiting that really got to him. The suspense. It felt stagnant and wrong, like he'd been cooped up inside too long and was overdosing on boredom. But the thing was that it wasn't just him, it was all of them. Everyone was feeling it. A sense of restlessness and indecision, like a man who knows a storm is comin' but sees only sunshine and fair skies on the horizon.

It had taken close to a week for the bruises to start to fade, lessening into sallow yellows and sickly greens that were barely visible underneath the uneven layer of dirt and grease he was now sporting. A solid week for the pain to lessen and the knots in his shoulders to slowly start to soften, but they had. …Eventually.

The nightmares had stayed though. So had the cold sweats and the sensation of raw cooper flooding across his tongue; the memories of breathing in his own stink and tasting the acrid tang of rusty metal flakes falling across his tongue. Even the sound of those hollow footsteps as they'd echoed down that long hallway. And the way cruel words had always preceded the harsh blows and punishing kicks. - He figured they'd probably fade given enough time, but he wasn't betting on it being soon.

He could probably go on at length about the days that had past since that morning where he'd dragged himself out of bed and took his turn on watch. The day where he'd proved to himself once and for all that this wasn't some grand allusion or a terrible fever dream, the day where he'd not only retaken his place, but accepted it for the first time since he'd set eyes on them at the Quarry camp. And in doing so, he'd made his position that much stronger. – In fact, he liked to think that he was better off for it rather than anything else.

But in reality, the details were simply not important; at least not in the traditional sense. Rather, they were important in the way that they forced you to read between the lines. To figure out what wasn't being said rather than what was.

Because the truth was that in that handful of days, the nights had grown colder. The days shorter, and more geeks had started venturing off the beaten path. There was no way to get around it or to escape it. But on top of the fact that winter was quickly approaching, the walkers had started leaving the roads. They'd started streaming out of the empty cities in favor of shambling through the forests and back country roads that hemmed them in on all sides. On the hunt for what the cities could no longer provide, fresh meat. - All but hand delivering them a very jarring dose of reality that no one seemed keen to face. The fact that the herd they'd seen on the highway was not the only one they were likely to come across.

The rules were changing and they had to be ready…

But despite the growing threat of the coming winter and the baleful predictions for what was to come, the day had dawned uncommonly early. Sending neon pinks and burnt orange hues fireballing across the horizon as the sun peeked out along the sweet Georgian skyline.

It was the kind of day that reminded him of an afternoon in high summer. Bringing with it the kind of heat that does it's best to turn your limbs into molasses. Molding the very air into something slow and heavy until you can't help but stretch yourself out; unable to resist the temptation as the warmth soaks deep into your bones. - An indulgence made even sweeter with the knowledge that the days of the lingering summer heat were already numbered.

It was the kind of day that reminded you that you were still alive. That made you believe it and feel it all at the same time. Reminding you that every ache, every bruise and scar, whether mental or physical was a blessing.

And like the rest of them, he was making good use of it. With the day finding him wedged up underneath Merle's wheels, getting the old girl ready for winter as the others carried on with their business around him. Even Carl was out and about somewhere. Probably off getting into trouble and giving his mama the run around no doubt. – It wasn't like it was any of his business, but in his opinion the kid needed a god damned leash and a strict talkin' to before something ended up in tears. The boy was going to get somebody killed if he wasn't made to mind, that much was as clear as day.

He wiped a tired hand across his forehead, unknowingly smearing a line of grease and grit clear across the span of it as he hooked the end of one of Dale's socket wrenches with the curl of his finger and dragged it firmly into reach. Thinking wistful thoughts about the tool kit he'd left behind back at the farm. He'd spent years building up the damn thing, amassing a collection that any man would have envied. Hell, he'd based his entire livelihood around it and now it was probably collecting dust on his work bench next to half a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Guderstan's ancient, rust encrusted muffler. – What a waste!

Unsurprisingly the image stuck with him, eventually devolving into that of a memory as he unwittingly recalled the last few days he'd spent at home before everything had gone to shit. He'd promised Frank, his boss down at the auto shop, that he'd take a look at that muffler over the weekend. Seeing if there was any way to salvage the damned thing as the owner, crazy old broad from across town had practically talked Frank's ear off about the 'untrustworthy nature' of new car parts, demanding that they simply repair the old one and send her on her way.

Paranoid old bird…

He remembered snorting in derision at the pleading look Frank had given him from clear across the shop, promising him a few hours of overtime if he looked it over. At the time he'd figured what the hell. He was broke and could use some extra green in his pocket. So he'd just nodded and gone back to the engine he'd been rebuilding, knowing long before he'd left for the day that all the extra time in the world wasn't going to fix that god damned part. The car itself had probably been running since the fucking Depression. It was falling apart at the seams and the crazy old bird was so far in denial that she didn't even know which way was up anymore. – So, in truth, he'd left it on his work bench, grabbed a cold beer, and had promptly forgotten about it.

The next day the entire fucking country imploded.

It was all over the news. Plastered across every channel, every god damned radio station and newspaper as the hushed talk he'd heard being traded in a few back country bars over the past few weeks...the whispers about a new type of disease and public unrest that was spreading down from the east coast suddenly became their new reality. - Except it wasn't just a disease. And it wasn't just in the United States. It was fucking everywhere.

He'd driven back into town that Monday to stock up on supplies and find out what the hell was going on. Figuring that they had time before the disease hit their little ass backwards piece of paradise. - No one wanted to believe that their own god damn government was lying about having everything under control, about having it contained and being this close to a cure. Not when so much was at stake. And thanks to all that PR bullshit, were they'd down played the reality of the disease and called for calm when they should have been telling people to evacuate, the disease hit his hometown with all the subtly of a kick in the balls. ...Catching everyone off guard, himself included.

Jenner had called it "Wildfire" and true to its name, it did exactly that. It tore through the continental US like an axe splitting through a tin can, messy and quick.

He still wasn't exactly sure why he did it. But he'd stopped at the shop on the way home. Figuring he'd get his pay stub and check on the old timer at the same time. Frank had a bum ticker and an old lady that drove him to drink, but he didn't mind admitting that the man was probably one of the only people in his shit hole of a home town that he figured was actually worth a damn.

In the end he wished he hadn't. He wished Frank hadn't been the kindest sonofabitch he'd ever met. He wished Frank hadn't been the one that had taken him by the ear and made him see sense. Saving him from himself and giving him a job all in one felled swoop nearly eight years ago today. He wished that Frank had never decided to give his scrawny, scrappy little ass a second chance, taking him off the path he'd been following and firmly onto one of his own making. Because if he hadn't maybe losing him wouldn't have hurt so god damned much.

Frank had given him back his freedom to choose, and come hell or high water, he'd never forget that. ...He couldn't, not even if he wanted to.

Because when he'd unlocked the front door and walked the familiar path through the office and into the shop, the first thing he saw was a high arc of blood splattered clear across the windshield of Mrs. Guderstan's old Charger. And Frank elbows deep in blood and vomit as he yanked out Mrs. Guderstan's insides piece by piece. Tearing and ripping as her limbs spasmed weakly with every jolt. Her watery brown eyes dull and beyond pleading as they turned to look at him, long past the point of screaming.

He remembered a stuttered curse, of stumbling backwards as his hands wind milled blindly. Watching Frank lever himself up to his feet, still chewing on a pale hunk of flesh as dead eyes fell on his. His lips curled back in a rattling snarl as blood stained teeth flashed in the overhead lights. - It was the color of Frank's eyes, more than anything else that really got to him. Because in spite of everything, his eyes were still the same bloodshot blue they always were. Only it wasn't Frank, at least not anymore.

So he did the only thing he could do. He put Frank down in mid rush, cracking his skull clear in two with the flat side of a shovel until the old man finally stopped twitching. Slipping and sliding in the blood and gunk until he found his footing and killed Mrs. Guderstan again for good measure. Remembering what the people on TV had been saying for the past few days. Instructions that had come directly from the CDC, only to be consequentially debated across every channel as people argued about the dangers of paranoia and the need to maintain a sense of morality in a time of crisis.

He hadn't been sure what to believe until he'd seen it with his own eyes. Until he'd watched poor Mrs. Guderstan hiss and lash out as he'd covered Frank's body with a dust cover from one of the cars. Dragging herself across the oily floor trying to reach him, apparently mindless of the fact that half her insides were either gone or trailing across the floor behind her.

He wasn't sure how long he was in there. But by the time he'd stumbled back outside, blood splattered and retching, half the town was on fire.

After that, working on that sorry excuse for a muffler had seemed pretty god damned stupid.

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He'd moved on to changing the oil and doing some tinkering around with the fuel intake connection when the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled. - And like clockwork, he stilled. With the hand that had been tightening one of the valves freezing in mid-turn as he closed his eyes and listened.

At the time he couldn't exactly point a finger at it. Call it intuition, divine intervention, or plain old instinct, but it all boiled down to the same god damned conclusion. Something had changed. Something wasn't right…

He levered himself upright, wriggling out from underneath the engine as he rolled to his feet. Mindful of the stitches in his side, he squinted into the underbrush, shading his eyes with a calloused hand as his gaze roved across the perimeter. – Alert for something, anything as his other hand inched towards his crossbow, unwilling to take his eyes off the tree line for even a second as his fingers scrabbled across the seat of Merle's hog. Inching across the worn leather as a twig snapped somewhere off to his right.

The tree line rippled as he squinted through the glare. Taunting him with illusions and heat sheers as a muted peal of laughter blared through the stillness. Startling him as his fingers curled around the stock of his crossbow. Keeping his movements slow and controlled, he gritted his teeth, trying his best to ignore the jarring twinge in his broken hand as he loaded an arrow into the sight and waited.

He was aware of the others talking and working in the background. Glenn and Maggie were necking up against the side of the barn, about as subtle as white on rice as Maggie's fingers tangled in the Korean's belt. Carol and Lori were talking in hushed tones as they hung up the laundry, making sympathetic noises as they went on about god only knows what. T-dog and Andrea were on top of the RV sharing watch, while Carl sat in the shade just behind the line of graves, trying his best to become invisible. Rick and Shane were no where in sight, something which depending on their mood was either a blessing or a death wish. While the others were inside, preparing dinner and tending to their chores as the occasional thud and flurry of laughter echoed from clear across the front yard.

The point was that everyone was accounted for…

A gust of wind whipped through the long grass. Sending the world around them into a fit of movement as a flurry of leafs shivered through the air like individual boats as sea. - He cocked his head as he watched them fall. Waiting long enough for the wind to shift before he wiped his filthy hands on his jeans and berated himself for being paranoid.

Nothing… There was nothing. He was out here chasin' after ghosts…

He was about to turn back to his work before he hesitated, caught on the cusp of action and inaction as the bile in his gut went sour. Something tripped across his senses. Something akin to deja vu or a long forgotten echo as a flash of color moved through the tree line. Brightly colored and unnatural when set against the earthy browns and greens.

No. It wasn't a ghost…

He turned on his heel in one smooth movement. Bringing up the crossbow like it was an extension of himself rather than a tool as something akin to fear settled deep in the pit of his stomach. Slithering down the length of him until it could go not further, trying it's best to take root and spread as he forced his stomach to quell.

They were not alone.


	26. Chapter 26

There were footsteps in the long grass; purposeful but ambling, a contradiction in of themselves as he stalked along the tree line. Staying only a few meters behind his prey as his boot soles dug deep into flaking, sun baked earth. The parched soil literally crumbling into pieces underneath him as he slowly crept forward.

The past summer had been particularly dry. Dry enough that there had been a growing concern about the possibility of a drought in the months before the disease had taken hold. The town council had been neck deep in contingency plans before the shit had even hit the fan. Going on and on about the possibility of it being the worst drought in over five decades. Getting themselves worked into a right old lather, while the Mayor, a two-bit penny pincher that was originally from upstate Michigan, shot down plan after plan due to the supposed expense. All else considered they shouldn't have bothered. – But still, by his count it hadn't rained in over a month and end of the world or not, a state wide drought was bad news for everyone.

The footsteps shifted, pausing in place for a long moment before continuing forwards. Only this time they were angling closer to the forest perimeter. Growing louder and louder as whatever it was started closing the gap between them. Shifting northeast now rather than continuing straight ahead like it had been doing since he'd first pin-pointed it's location.

He squinted through the brush. Trying to catch another glimpse of whatever was out there as he inched few millimeters closer to the edge of the tree line. - But to be honest, he wasn't exactly expecting it when he did. In fact his spine stiffened when he caught a flash of fabric, sky blue with stark white pinstripes, before it was suddenly gone again. …Shit.

Walker!

He fell back another step, tightening his grip around the stock of his crossbow as his palms practically dripped with sweat. Acutely aware of the subtle hush as a light breeze ghosted through the long grass, whipping through the underbrush as the sheer force of it rippled across the fallow field off to his right. Catching against his filthy jeans as the thorny brush did it's best to needle into his skin as he passed.

Where are you going you little bastard?

He shook his head. There was no road for close to five miles in every direction, no deer herds, nor sign of people, and yet this deadhead was walkin' along like he had somewhere to be. - Fuckin' mental…

Did they just walk until they happened upon something? Christ. Even animals rested. Even animals did more than just…consume. Nothing in nature acted this way, predator or prey. No, this was something else. Man-made, probably something designed in some high tech laboratory by a bunch of egg heads that hadn't had enough common sense to fill a god damned teaspoon. Had they ever stopped to think? Had they ever considered what would happen if something went wrong? ...Had they even cared when it did?

He eased himself into the tree line, passing the natural barrier of low lying brush as he eased his way around a snarl of flowering bushes riddled through with thorns. Feeling them scrape across the span of his forearms as he melted into the bush. Mirroring the walker footstep for footstep as he slowly advanced on it from behind. - It was obscured by a tangle of trees somewhere just ahead, but he could hear it just fine, ambling along with those same disconcertingly steady footfalls. ...Predictable and focused.

If he didn't know any better he would have sworn it was just another person, another survivor like them. But it wasn't, it couldn't be. After all, why the hell would anyone be running around the forest in the middle of butt fuck no where? The town was deserted, walker infested, and picked clean. You'd need wheels or a pair of god damned wings to get any where else around these parts. There wasn't another town for at least fifty miles in either direction. - After all, this wasn't the city, this was about as close to the boondocks as civilization could get while still being called 'civil'.

He'd walked clear across the front pasture and had been skirting along the perimeter of the tree line when he heard first them. The only affirmation he needed to tell him that his feelings, his instincts had been bang on. - He'd slipped away quietly. Not wanting to alert the others and cause a panic before he knew what they were dealing with. So instead of making a scene, he'd left the bike and his tools spread out across the oil slick grass. Waiting until the others were occupied elsewhere before he sheathed his buck knife, scooped up his crossbow and made for the tree line.

Hell, for all he knew there was an entire herd roaming through the marshes, completely unaware of them and merely passing through in search of food. If they weren't careful, if this wasn't handled right, a single untimely gunshot or a terrified scream could be fucking disastrous.

So he'd slipped away. Skirting the tree line and waiting for his moment as he followed their unsteady rhythm. They were footfalls without substance, eerie in their deliberateness, but far too clumsy to be anything else than a single deadhead; a fresh one perhaps, but certainly nothing more than that. An easy mark...

But instead of charging ahead half cocked, he waited. Listening and learning as he'd followed the thing for close to half a mile, leaving the farm and the pasture behind him as he kept the wheat field running adjacent to the tree line in his direct line of sight. Wanting to be dead sure there was the only one of them before he took it down. - All the while trying to temper down the feeling that something wasn't right. It was almost as if he was looking at a puzzle box with only half its pieces. Something was off about this, he could feel it.

Fuck, what was it about this thing that had him all worked up? Was it just jitters? The fact that this was his first kill since Manning and the kidnapping? No... This was something else, something elusive; something that set his teeth on edge and forced him to consider the fact that he might just be-…

But before he could even finish that thought, somewhere up ahead the footsteps suddenly slowed. Fading off into the low buzz of noise that always seemed to be present in the Deep South this time of year, rich with the heady chirps of low flying insects and hungry birds, the rustle of the wind filtering through the trees, even the frightened skittering of a dozen nervous mammals scrambling for cover. It was all there, just like it should be, normal and soothing. Or at least it should have been soothing…

He stopped. Chest rising and falling as his pulse echoed in his ears. Damnit! - He cursed under his breath, lips twisting around the words as his teeth gnawed on the inside of his cheek. All but sweating out a sudden surge of anger and frustration as the full connotations of the silence slowly dawned on him. - Because somewhere amidst that vast cacophony of sound, he'd lost it. As impossible and improbable as it seemed the slow hush of footsteps had suddenly ceased, fading off into the background like the individual strains of music that make up that of a symphony.

Shit!

He waited for a series of heartbeats before moving forward. It couldn't be that far ahead. Maybe it had just stopped? Maybe it had heard something? An animal? One of the others? Him? - He craned his neck, squinting into the underbrush as he tried to catch a glimpse of it. But there was nothing. No noise, no half seen flashes, nothing.

A sheath of loose bark snagged on the frayed wisps of his torn off shirt sleeves as he brushed against a tree. Catching, and then ripping away with a weak little flutter of pulverized pine sap and brittle moss as he stalked forward. Throwing caution to the wind as he slipped around a boulder and deliberately crunched through a snarl of bone dry reeds, letting the sound echo out as he hunkered down behind a tree and waited. Heart racing for some reason he could neither name nor define as his fingers tightened across the trigger of his crossbow.

It had to have heard that. There was no way it didn't know he was following it now. - But there was nothing. No sound. No excited growls, feral rumbles, or garbled syllables that had the audacity to stand in the place of words. And neither was there any movement, no awkward smattering of footsteps stumbling through the underbrush towards him. No cracking twigs or shifting undergrowth. Not even the smallest whisper of sound.

Where are you? …Com'on out you little bastard…

He took a slow, deep breath. Holding it in and letting it pool in his lungs for a long moment, just like he would when he was taking a drag. Sucking that sweet smoke deep into his lungs as the hot flush of nicotine sparked across his senses. Feeling the familiarity of the action calm him in a way no drug ever could as the slow burn gradually worked it's magic. Reminding him of his place, of where he was right here and right now, and that people other than himself were counting on him.

This was no different than any other time he'd been out on a hunt and his prey had given him the slip. He had to stay focused. He had to stay calm and do what had always come naturally to him. …No more pussy footing around, it was time to track this mother fucker.

He walked forwards, angling due north, just like the walker had been doing, until something finally caught his eye. He sunk down on his haunches on impulse, fingers ghosting over a crushed tangle of wild Gardenias flowers. Keen eyes taking in the freshly bent stalks and loosened petals before his eyes caught the outline of a clear set of foot prints in the soft dirt just ahead. …Gotcha.

The person who'd made these was no more than 5'10 to 6'1 in height, and was undoubtedly male. Judging by the way the prints were pressed into the ground, the solidity of the prints indicated the presence of a heavy figure that was both broad shouldered and evenly spaced. - Which ruled out someone carrying a heavy load. Otherwise there would have been more pressure on the dominant foot, thus creating a deeper and less perfect footprint. ...These tracks were even, clumsy, but even.

He traced the outline with his thumb and forefinger. He didn't recognize the tread. They weren't military issue combats, construction boots, hikers, or even plain old sneakers. They curved up into gentle points at the toes rather than rounded out. They were unique, strange.

Who the hell wore shoes like that in the middle of the god damned forest?


	27. Chapter 27

He was crouched low, crossbow up and aimed dead ahead as the snap of a twig sounded off to his right. The sound making him flinch and whirl just as a flock of pheasants exploded out of the brush to his left. His injured side all but screaming as he dug his free hand into the loose dirt to regain his balance, feeling the dry topsoil give way as he buried his fingers up to the knuckles.

Shit.

"Where are you, you little bastard?" He muttered, teeth sinking deep into his lower lip as he bit down hard. Senses high and over stimulated as he sucked in a ragged breath and then another. Lungs screaming at the abuse as he whirled in place. Sore limbs cracking at the strain as he hunkered down in the tall grass, alert for any sound…any flash of color…something…anything.

His mind started playing tricks on him as he inched forward, tempting him with the afterimages of movement as a thousand different shadows raked across the forest floor. Oozing through the gaps between the branches to pool in the crevices and cracks of downed trees and split-faced boulders, teasing him with the promise of danger as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Something moved just beyond his line of sight. Perpetual motion that rippled through the stillness as the low hum of crickets cut off abruptly. – It couldn't be far now… Just a few more meters…

He dropped down into a crouch as loud rustle issued from the brush only a few meters ahead, ignoring the scream in his side as his stitches pulled taunt. Unable to hold back a wince as a single rivulet of blood trickled down from the wound, staining his dirty shirt with a thin line of crimson.

He licked his lips reflectively. Sharp teeth nibbling at the tender flesh until a dozen old wounds seared back into prominence, mixing pain and adrenaline together to create a uniquely volatile mixture that had his heart pumping double.

Something hot clutched at the back of his throat, tearing at his insides until he nearly choked on it. Fear, anger, panic, frustration, they were all there, emotions that rose up, oily, poisonous, and slick from deep in his gut with all the audacity of a long forgotten enemy. Threatening to overwhelm him completely as he forced them back down, wiping a filthy hand across his face as he shook himself over. Ridding himself of the lingering whispers as he eyed the ground for tracks.

The afternoon sun glinted high overhead, filtering down through the forest canopy with all the strength of a particularly warm Indian summer. Reminiscent of the broiling heat that comes only weeks before the harsh winter chill. Deceptive and alluring, but ultimately deadly for those who don't take heed and prepare for winter. - Men had certainly died for less…

The screech of a hawk echoed in the air above him. The cry echoing out high and fierce as the winged predator banked down to earth for the kill. Plummeting into the over grown wheat on the opposite side of the tree line as the terrified squeal of some unlucky rodent cut off in mid call.

He held back a flinch by the skin of his teeth. Holding in a startled breath until the lack of oxygen forced him to breathe. Gulping air like he'd lived half his life without it as the collar of his shirt wilted in the heavy afternoon air. Suddenly feeling all too conscious of the way a sudden flush of heat had sent sweat trickling down from his temples, dripping across his collarbone and neck until he was slick with it. - Shit.

God damnit! Where was it?!

It wasn't until he'd cleared a small ridge and pushed his way through a thicket of stripped blackberry bushes that he picked up the trail again. - A handful of moments trickled by after that. Ten, maybe even fifteen minutes all but crawling by as he carefully made his way through the brush, following the tracks as they ploughed through the undergrowth with a brand of carelessness that reminded him of a bulldozer. With the previously subtle tracks turning sloppy, grinding deep into the soil and churning up the forest floor like whatever had made them had suddenly ceased caring if someone was following them or not.

What the fuck? Something wasn't right… This was all wrong… What if this wasn't a-..

The wind whistled through the branches overhead as he picked his way around a tangled pile of broken twigs and kicked up underbrush. Pausing to examine the way deep gouges had been raked through the dirt. Uprooting ferns and flipping over the topsoil almost as though something large had fallen and then struggled back to its feet.

The footprints stumbled forward, dragging through the mouldering leaves and natural forest compost, only to turn chaotic and unpredictable as they tripped right into a tangle of flattened poison oak. His lips curled upwards in vague amusement as he recalled a conversation not too long ago with Andrea. Back in the days when the wounds left by Amy's death had still been raw and bleeding. And Andrea had been caught in that strange place people tend to find themselves in when they're forced to make the decision whether they want to live or die. Apathetic to almost everything else until the spark finally ignites in their breast and their decision suddenly makes itself.

Lucky for them, she'd chosen life.

He skirted around the patch of poison oak and picked up the trail as it continued through the soft dirt; only now the right foot appeared to be dragging, almost as if whatever it was had hurt their ankle in the fall. – A thrill of adrenaline coursed down his spine as the muted snap of a twig sounded out somewhere just ahead. The sound accompanied by the soft hush-hush of long grass rasping across wet fabric as whatever it was continued it's lonely trek through the thick Georgian underbrush.

It was a walker, it had to be...

A few feet away a small pool of crimson could be seen splattered across a patch of bright green ferns, standing out starkly amidst the earthy greens and browns. And he couldn't deny that the surrounding chorus from the forest canopy sounded strangely muted as he caught sight of a half a hand print of blood that was smeared across the bark of a twisted white birch only half a meter away. – Only this time the blood was old. Coagulated and thick as it petered off into faded smudges of color at the tips, still moist with the morning dew.

How long had this thing been out here? Shit.

The forest around him gradually began to thin as he followed the bizarre trail that was now winding in between old growth trees and fallen logs. There was no pattern, no logic, just movement. And he'd be lying if his frown didn't deepen the more the prints zigzagged and stumbled. With precise footfalls turning clumsy and off kilter as the barest echoes of someone pushing their way through the brush ahead of him stalled in the heavy afternoon air.

…Just a few more meters.

He skirted around the base of a tall outcropping of boulders. Rounding the corner with an unexpected flurry of noise as his boots crunched across a layer of broken granite shards and split off shale. …Fuck. - But there was no time to stop, no time for self-incrimination or brow-beating, because there was something coming up ahead. It looked like a clearing of some sort, a man-made gap in the wilderness.

Logging?

Sweat trickled down from his hairline as he paused, stalling just behind the thin layer of blackberry bushes that ringed the perimeter of the clearing. Tempting him with the allusion of safety as his eyes flickered over the scene in less than five seconds flat. It was an exposed space, too exposed. – The perfect place for a trap or an ambush if he was wrong. If it was a walker, he'd have plenty of space and natural cover in order to deal with it quickly and quietly. But if it was something else…well, it was fucking curtains.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he scanned the clearing for the second time. Alert for any sign of movement, any sign of his prey as the needle-like thorns of the blackberry bush scraped across his exposed skin.

...Wait for it. Just a little bit longer…

He swallowed a mouthful of stale sweat and frustration. Forcing himself to stay hunkered down as every cell in his body screamed for him to act. The secluded little hollow still looked clear, scattered through with jagged tree stumps and freshly planted saplings. But he knew better. - In fact the back half was completely obscured by an untidy jumble of boulders and a cut off ridge that made up the clearings southern most point. Opening up into a shallow crevasse that wound back into the forest somewhere up ahead, probably carved out by a few decades worth of winter run off.

…It was here, he'd bet his ass on it.

And it was.


	28. Chapter 28

…Or should he say, he was there. Because when he'd pushed his way through the thin line of bushes that ringed the perimeter of the clearing, the thing was suddenly just there.

It hadn't taken much after that. A few cautious moments slowly navigating his way through the dry reeds and wild rose bushes, doing his best to ignore the sting as the sharp thorns scored across his exposed skin. Pulling and tearing until muted beads of crimson began trickling down the insides of his arms, coloring the forest floor with a trail of red as he pushed through the thin layer of foliage and made his way into the clearing.

His crossbow was up and ready as his fingers traced the curve of the trigger, adding confidence to his steps as he slowly moved forward. Boot soles hushing through the tall grass and jagged stumps until he found himself in the center of a secluded little hollow that had been hewn out of the rock by nature and time. It was surrounded by rock on all sides save for one. One that looked out into the horizon through a man-made gap in the trees, providing a view that not only encompassed the entire skyline, but spanned outwards as well. Following the blurred lines of the distant hills and the jagged rectangles of some far flung city, tempting him with the promise of safety and civilization even as dark pillars of smoke rose up between the rooftops for as far as the eye could see. - It was a fire that had probably been burning for days, if not weeks. A slow moving blaze that could very well encompass the entire city before nature and time eventually put it out.

He'd lost count of how many cities they'd lost that way, Manhattan, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Toronto, Vancouver, and at least half of London and Berlin. Hell, even Hong Kong had been hit. Entire urban centers that had been blanketed in city wide fires in the first few weeks were left to simply burn themselves out as thousands of people died, trapped in the quarantine zones. There had been no one left alive to put out the fires, so the cities, the parks, and the suburbs had simply burned. The last thing he'd heard about it before the TVs has gone out was that most of Austin, Texas had gone up in smoke. – But he supposed that at the end of the day, that was neither here nor there.

Because just as he'd predicted, that hollow was exactly where he found him…

It was just standing there. Ready and waiting like the horrid thing had known he'd been coming for him all along. Like it had planned it, sensed it, or hell, even willed it to happen. The details weren't important, only the result. Only the fact that in spite of everything it was here - and now it was his problem to deal with.

It was a man. Or least it had been a man. He'd been tall and broad shouldered, with smooth skin and weathered salt and pepper curls. Its clothing was blood stained, yet still strangely clean in comparison to the majority of walkers they came across these days. - Hell, the dumb bastard was still strapped into an old hiking backpack for Christ sakes! It was a bit ragged around the edges. Caked with an uneven layer of dirt and gore, but it was still firmly affixed around his shoulders by a number of frayed buckles and straps. There was even a gun holster strapped onto its belt that housed a small, police issued Glock 9MM.

Strange...if he'd had a gun why hadn't he used it? The holster wasn't even unclipped. Had the poor bastard been jumped from behind? Taken down before he could even reach for his piece? - It just didn't make any sense. The thing was a walking paradox wrapped up in a meat suit that didn't have enough sense left to realize that it was only masquerading at playing a man.

It probably would have been funny if it hadn't been so god damn pathetic.

The man was standing with his back to him, angled in such a way that it made making out any details of his profile impossible to determine. But despite the anonymity, his eyes got caught on the little things. Lingering far too long as they raked down the man's lean, but muscled form. Catching on the individual pleats and mud caked skid marks that had been ground deep into the man's tan slacks before they continued up the rest of him. There was something familiar about the way the walker carried itself. Something in the stiffness of its spine and the way its blood streaked hands hung limply at its sides. A perfectly sculpted jumble of delicate callouses and tapered fingers, yet still deceptively strong and lightening fast all the same.

He knew those hands... But from where?

The women would have probably called him a real looker. And from what he could see around the backpack, he had to admit that the man was well dressed. Wearing a tailored, sky blue dress shirt and cattle hide belt. Everything you'd expect from your everyday millionaire in training. All bark and no bite, the type with more balls than brains.

He didn't like it. Everything about the man was out of place, he just didn't fit. Not out here, and certainly not now. He was dressed like he'd been on his way to a business meeting rather than a date with the end of the world. And he was too fresh, too whole looking to have been one of the ones that'd been caught unaware in the beginning.

Besides, what was a city slicker doing with a gun like that? It was a solid, no nonsense piece, like the kind they used to assign to law enforcement and game wardens back when the dead had generally stayed that way. So how did this jerk manage to get a hold of one of them? - Either way, he was willing to bet a considerable amount of green that there was one hell of a story behind that juicy little detail.

But like he'd said, something just didn't fit. He could practically taste it.

His fingers firmed around the trigger as a disorganized arrow of birds fluttered high overhead. Breaking the suffocating silence with a few questioning notes that echoed through the hollow like the first strains from some old ballroom melody. And for reasons beyond him, he paused. Five seconds away from putting an arrow clear through that deadhead's eye socket, he hesitated.

The man had been a survivor, and in spite of everything he respected that. He saw worth in it. Hell, he even felt a strange sort of camaraderie for the type of man this thing had once been. It was a feeling that was only reinforced when he let his eyes follow the stiff line of the man's back, taking in the lean muscle and unforgiving angles with a critical, but appraising eye.

…And honestly? It felt like looking in a fucking mirror.

A voice in the back of his head screamed at him to take the shot, babbling on about last chances and lousy odds. But he baulked at it all the same. He'd never been one to shoot someone in the back if he could help it, living or dead. It was just something that had never sat well with him, regardless of the circumstances.

If you took a life you had to be ready to look them in the eye when you did it, to take responsibility for their last moments and breathe them in regardless of the reasons or the circumstances. You had to be able to live with what you saw reflected there or you had no business killin' a man in the first place, walker or not.

So maybe that was why he forced himself to take that last step forward, crunching through the fallen rock and brittle moss with the exaggerated shriek of granite grating against granite. Letting the sound echo out in an attempt to get the walker's attention as the deadhead remained motionless, apparently content to ignore the bait and take in the view instead.

After a few moments of nothing he finally whistled, like he would to a dog or one of his mare's back at home. Barely able to temper down his surprise when the walker remained where it was, showing no sign that it was aware or even interested in him at all. - Hell, with all the noise he'd been making the damn thing should have been all over his ass before he'd even so much as pushed into the clearing.

But again the walker didn't move. It didn't even fucking stir.

What the fuck?

A sudden chill worked its way up his spine. Sending electric shivers coursing through the sweat-soaked fabric until the sensation was itching across his scalp, making his skin feel strangely tight, like he was five seconds away from bursting out of his skin on pure adrenaline alone. …Something was wrong.

A light gust of wind stirred the hairs on his arms. Making them stand on end until they puckered around the base like goose pimples in spite of the oppressive heat. He bit his lip, worrying the cracking skin as he slowly took another step forward. Sucking in a cautionary breath as the bad feeling he'd been nursing since he'd crossed into the tree line suddenly turned foul and rotten. Like the stink of old death that now encompassed the cities. Growing until it was churning in his gut like something vile, slick, and alive. Until all he could do was force himself to swallow that watery little dribble of vomit that was threatening to rise as the silent figure remained where it was, uninterested and still. Like a sentry to an invisible monument, or a pilgrim staring at some new found Mecca.

Shit. Something wasn't right. He was missing something. Something about this whole thing just didn't add up, but what? What could he have missed? It was just a walker, a walker alone and lost in the woods, the last remnants of some poor bastard whose luck had finally run out.

…Right?

"Suit yourself." He finally muttered, shaking his head at his own foolishness as he brought the crossbow up and centered his aim. Lining up the scope where those meticulously styled salt and pepper curls tapered down into an elegant, if not slightly overgrown sheath of hair in the back.

But then, just as he was about to bear down on the trigger, that was when the walker turned, shifting towards him with a slow, deliberate sway that tilted it's head the slightest millimeter to the side. The movement was so shallow that it was more like a shiver or a twitch than anything else. He couldn't see the details, or even the entirety of the thing's face. But it was enough.

Awareness prickled. Like a tangible rush that coursed down his spine with all the ferocity of fucking napalm. Hushing through his blood like a warning as the figure wavered in place. Those stupid, pointed-toe shoes fidgeting in the crumbling granite for a long, edgy moment as its blood slicked head slowly began to turn.

…No. It couldn't be. They'd promised.

He stumbled backwards as his scope picked up the movement, a slight, barely there flutter that signaled the rise and fall of a living chest. Its shoulders and back flexing underneath the straps of that torn up backpack like it was expelling a pent up breath of air.

But that was impossible, walkers didn't breathe. They were fucking dead. So that meant-…

Oh Christ...

Because that was when it hit him, when suddenly everything made perfect sense. Because for all his foresight, for all his skills and instincts it wasn't until the thing had turned around enough to show him the outline of his face that he realized… no, he recognized who it was for the first time since he'd slipped into the woods to hunt one of their everyday nightmares. - Ironic that in the process, all he'd really found was his own.

Because he knew that face, that face and the name that lay beneath it. He knew it better than most people knew their own. He'd been forced to relearn it every time he'd looked in the mirror. Every time he'd dressed the healing scars and iced his swollen limbs. Every time he'd closed his god damned eyes without the buffer of a couple of pain pills and half a bottle of shitty whiskey to keep the nightmares at bay.

Because it wasn't a walker at all, it was Manning… He was alive!

And he'd be damned if something in the back of his brain just fucking howled.


	29. Chapter 29

You know that feeling you get when you think you've figured everything out? …That smug sort of relief that floods through your veins like a mouthful of water on a blisteringly hot day? Well, he was all but sweating it.

After all the suspense, all the confusion and utter shit that had dogged his steps as he'd crept through the tree line. Following Manning's trail through the woods until he'd finally arrived at the metaphorical gingerbread house. He finally figured he had a good handle on things. That he knew, just as surely as he took his next breath, what was coming and why.

It's funny how just when you think you've figured everything out, you can still be completely and utterly wrong.

Saliva pooled across his tongue. Turning sour and disgustingly thick until he nearly choked on his own tongue as his brain somehow forgot how to swallow. - It was only when the need to breathe became desperate that panic rippled through him, jump-starting his lungs into compliance as he coughed up a mouthful of stale spit and phlegm and forced himself to breathe.

He spat viciously. Tasting the acidic backwash of blood, sweat, and a hint of Carol's weak, rose hip tea as the contents of his stomach threatened to rise up and exit on the proverbial stage left. Gut churning like he was five seconds away from losing it completely as he struggled to pull himself together. All but main-lining the last vestiges of shock and adrenaline like an addict searching out his next fix, desperate to remain afloat as disbelief and a growing wave of panic tried it's best to bury him. - Christ, he was going to be sick…

What terrible will could make something like this possible?

His grip on reality down shifted, devolving into a tailspin as he stumbled backwards. It was almost as if his body and his brain had sudden found themselves at war with one another and was unsure of who was the superior force. With previous harmony and mutual cooperation turning into chaos as he scrambled to simply stay afloat between them. Losing control for a long moment as he backed himself right into a rock wall, the sharp edges cutting into his skin until his filthy shirt ran mud-red and angry.

Shit. Get a grip Dixon!

It wasn't until his shoes dug deep into the dry, Georgian soil that he felt centered again. Pushing off from the sharp rocks and crumbling piles of shale in order to advance on Manning, mindless of the noise as he hunched down into a protective crouch and kept his arrow aimed at the bastard's heart.

It was a trap! It had to be! It was the only thing that made sense. The only problem was that even that explanation didn't quite make any sense either. Because he hadn't seen any other tracks, no signs of disturbed undergrowth or recent foot traffic anywhere else save for Manning's half hazard trail. What was Manning playing at? Tramping around in the forest like this? What was the end game?

This whole stunt was one hell of a risk for something as simple as payback. After all, how could Manning have been sure that he'd come after him? How had he known that he wouldn't just shoot him on sight and be done with it? What did Manning stand to gain from this risky little charade? Him? The farm? Revenge? The numbers just didn't add up.

But then again, Manning had never been an easy one to figure out. Even now, after everything he'd been through, he didn't pretend to know how the man's mind worked. He was slicker than a used car salesman and twice as dirty. He was cunning, smart, and more dangerous than any walker or two-bit con man either living or dead. Manning was someone whose secrets had secrets and whose plans had layers that went beyond the flesh. He was more than a predator, he was a fucking sadist.

Manning was a breed apart from other men and not in a particularly good way either. He was one of the most dangerous kinds of men in the world today. One without limits or boundaries, he could not be bribed, convinced, or swayed. He had no loyalty save to himself and cared for no one and nothing because in the end, he was a man that knew the true power of things like morality and love. How they crippled you and made you weak. Making you less than you were when the phantom crutches of love and loyalty were kicked out from underneath you. Men like Manning knew this. They fed off it. Merle had been cut from the very same cloth. He knew the value others placed on such emotions and used them accordingly.

He didn't understand the way men like Manning and Merle looked at the world, and god help him, but he hoped he never did. Because what they didn't realize was that there were two sides to every coin. The good and the bad, and you needed to have one of each to understand the difference. To know that the things that made you weak were also the things that made you strong. And the things that could cripple you if taken away were the same things that you'd fight to the death in order to keep.

A man needed something more too live for than himself, even he knew that. – Yet that small, seemingly insignificant fact was something that a person like Manning could never hope to understand. It was beyond him. In spite of all Manning's strengths, all his advantages, that simple piece of humanity remained completely out of his reach.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek on pure reflex as Manning shifted. Recoiling instinctively as those rumpled, salt and pepper curls turned away from him. Angling his head in such a way that the low afternoon sun glinted through the veil of the man's mussed up ringlets - turning back towards the horizon with a sort of carelessness that made even him do a double take. As if his presence here was no more worrisome or dangerous than the buzzing of some particularly amorous horsefly. In fact, if the man noticed him at all, he certainly gave no sign.

But the entire moment turned surreal and almost phantasmagorical only a few moments later when one of Manning's gore-streaked hands suddenly curled up into an awkward fist. His grip lax and almost disinterested as the man brought his hand up to his mouth for a long moment - as if the man were simply scratching his nose or wiping the sweat off his forehead. Either way, it was a moment that had him tensing up and counting the seconds until it dropped back down to his side once again. Breaking the suffocating silence with the soft hush of fabric rasping against fabric as the fingers of his right hand tangled in his belt loops. Apparently content to remain where he was for the time being, silent, unmoving, and completely uncompromising.

But worst of all, when he looked down at the man's hand, he realized that those blood-caked fingers had been licked clean.

What the fuck?!

He watched the man closely now. Circling around behind him as carefully as the terrain allowed. Frustrated for reasons beyond him when the man remained where he was. The profile of his face shadowed by the rocky overhang as the man looked off into the distance.

The bastard's name got caught in the back of his throat as Manning suddenly wavered in place. Acting almost if he'd changed his mind about moving forward halfway through the motion itself, jerking awkwardly as gravity and inertia fought to upset the man's tenuous looking balance. – In fact, Manning looked like he was seconds away from collapse. His spine curling inward as visible tremors coursed through his blood splattered limbs. Quivering like a man struck with some sort of infirmity as the man hunched his back and shuffled a few steps deeper into the shadows.

He wasn't sure where the courage came from, but somewhere along the line he managed to reclaim his balls and get his fucking act together. After all, he hadn't lived his life only to become some sort of limp-wristed pussy when push came to shove. He was more than that, better, and he knew it.

"…Manning." He rasped. Tongue catching on the syllables before he threw them out into the open air. Calling the man by his name under his own power for the first time since they'd met - this time man to man, but with him holding the home court advantage.

And it was about fucking time too.

"Hands where I can see them you sick fuck." He growled, nearly spitting out the words now as his tone turned viperous and harsh. Circling back around to Manning's side and cursing under his breath when the man's profile remained half-wreathed by the shadowy incline of rock. - If he could just see Manning's face, then maybe he could get a handle on things. He needed something to judge the man's mood, something…anything to tell him what the asshole's next move might be.

But instead of responding, the man remained silent - too silent. And the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach only intensified. Because one thing, if anything was clear. Something wasn't right. He was still missing something. The final piece of the puzzle he'd been chewing on since day fucking one. Since the moment he'd heard the noise that had drawn him into the forest in the first place. Since the day that Manning's men had surrounded him, overpowering him with sheer numbers as he'd tried to punch and claw his way to freedom. - Hell, since the day Rick had looked him in the eye and told him that the mean sonofabitch was dead.

Because somehow, deep down, he realized that he really should have known better.

Confusion whirled, spreading through his veins like poison from a gangrenous wound. Bone deep and heady as a sudden burst of realization screamed from its place on the chopping block. A hairs breath from being lost to him forever as a quiver of doubt wriggled its way into his subconscious. Lancing through him, brutal and quick, like one of his own god damned arrows on track for his very heart.

Christ, what if-

They say that in situations like these, in near death experiences, epiphanies, and moments of vindication, that time slows down. But any jackass who's ever held up a 7-11 knows that's a crock of shit. Time doesn't slow down, it speeds up. Way up. There aren't any classic Hollywood scenes were the camera pans over to the dashing male lead at the very moment of the film's climax. The main dame's hair doesn't flow back from her face in a sudden and completely unexplainable breeze. Her perfect, rouge-red lips don't mouth soundlessly as the film slows to a crawl, turning her passionate cry into something downright obscene and sensual. Forming a perfect 'o' of surprise as the male lead smirks and takes down the bad guy in one perfectly choreographed punch.

No, the truth is that reality is a cold, heartless bitch that would just as soon as eat you alive than cut you a break.

Because his brain was trying to play tricks on him, taunting him with a realization that was so close to the surface that it felt like he could just reach out and grab it. It distracted him to the point where his crossbow actually wavered. His shocked fingers lax around the trigger as a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. …Damnit.

Why hadn't Manning turned around? If this was a trap, how did the man intend to spring it? So far it seemed as though he had the advantage, but if Manning was here that didn't make any sense. Where were his men? Why wasn't his gun drawn? Something wasn't right. He'd overlooked something. Shit! What had he missed?

"Didn't you hear me? It's over Manning. Take that gun outta 'yer holster and drop it now or I promise that you'll be dead long before you have time to fire." He hissed, doing a complete circuit around the hollow before he advanced another cautious step forward. Gaining a short lived sliver of confidence when the man's fingers twitched at his sides, dirt-encrusted nails brushing against his holster like the man was actually considering his words before his hands drifted back down to hang at his sides once again.

But other than that, the man didn't even react.

Hell, Manning still wasn't even looking at him. He bit his lip. Trying to fight off a sudden chill as something cold trickled down his spine and into his belly as he took it in. Watching as a light gust of wind rippled through the man's messy, salt and pepper curls. Upsetting the lay of the man's frayed pant legs as a thin tangle of unravelled threads ghosted across the dry Georgian dust at their feet. And yet, the man remained where he was. Both feet planted solidly on the ground, head up and facing off into the horizon like he hadn't even fucking heard him.

He sucked in a low, unsteady breath. Pulse thrumming in his ears as the lilting echoes of birdsong piped through the strained silence unexpectedly. Singing into the dusk with a sparse melody and a questioning tone until the sound faded out of his hearing entirely. - He held back a flinch, but only just.

The slowly healing scars that encircled both his wrists tugged uncomfortably against the strap of his crossbow as he firmed the stock into his shoulder. Catching awkwardly against the scabs and half healed pits where the metal had bit deep into his skin. Reminding him of everything that he'd lost and won in that room. Reminding him of everything Manning had tried to do, of everything he'd tried to take… Reminding him how close he'd come to nearly giving-

No. Not again. He wouldn't let him. Not this time.

And to be honest, he just fucking lost it. He forgot to be silent. He forgot to be unmovable and uncaring. He forgot to keep his voice down and continue scanning the perimeter of the clearing behind them. He forgot that he wasn't supposed to care, that he shouldn't and that at the end of the day, the man really wasn't worth it. – But perhaps more importantly, he forgot what happens when you open the door to emotions like rage and retribution.

Because like most of the crippling things that'd come out of Pandora's Box. The truth was, that in trying to free something that could potentially be used for good, you always end up letting loose far more than you originally intended. Things like hurt and sorrow, fear, loss, and every other little nuance of feeling that existed in between. Because without his consent, everything he'd ever held back, repressed, and shoved deep into the back of his subconscious rose up as one - sounding out in a single, disjointed chorus that only demanded one deceivingly simple thing. …Justice. Not just for himself, but for everyone. For everyone who'd suffered by Manning's hand and for everyone who could have. For all the wrongs Manning could have committed if he hadn't screwed up and come after him.

Christ.

Something snapped inside his brain as his eyes raked over him. Wounds throbbing, pounding in the back of his skull, the scars around his wrists thickening and stretching as the rocky hollow grew shadowed and grey. A gleeful sort of horror rose up in the back of his throat like bile as thoughts of revenge and restitution danced through his head like a kid envisioning Christmas. Manic and dark as the memory of the man's cruel smile seared through his minds eye like freshly ignited napalm.

He had a score to settle with Manning. He'd just never expected that he'd be able to cash it in. He had no idea how the man had managed to get out. How he'd escaped from the groups initial assault on the building and the walker herd that had closed in behind them. But somehow he wasn't surprised. Men like Manning didn't die easily. It was probably the only thing the two of them actually had in common.

His fingers tightened around the trigger as he aimed down the sight. Centering his shot square across the back of the man's head as he judged the direction and speed of the growing breeze coming in from the east. Squinting into the dying afternoon sun as he wiped away a stinging trickle of sweat, tasting the acrid burn of his own fluids, mixed together with the lingering sweetness of freshly crushed honey-suckle as the wind rippled through the clearing behind them.

It was such a reverse of the moment where they'd first met that he nearly laughed. Only this time he was the man holding the gun. And Manning didn't have a chance in hell of not getting what was coming to him. Call it karma, justice, a stroke of divine intervention, or just pure dumb luck, in the end it didn't matter.

This moment was his, and he intended to have it.

The tension suddenly broke not a minute later, shattering into sharp splinters of reflecting colors and percussive sounds as he moved forward. Because before his brain could even process it, he found himself suddenly lurching forward, cross bow angled upwards and away as he closed the distance between them in just a few quick strides.

"Look at me you sick fuck!" He snarled, fingers curling around the back of Manning's pack-sack as he grabbed him by the straps and yanked him backwards, spinning him around to face him at long last.

And suddenly, just like that, everything started to make a hell of a lot more sense.

He staggered backwards in horror. Crossbow clattering to the ground as his side howled in agony. Nearly tripping and falling flat on his ass in an effort to scramble backwards. Forearm stinging as the tip of his own arrow scored across his skin, kicking up a cloud of dirt and pebbles as he looked up at the man's face for the first time since he'd entered the clearing. Since that last night at Manning's place where he'd watched the man haunt the shadows of the room as he'd swung from that god damned meat hook, tipping back and forth like a freshly butchered steer from the slaughter. Half dead but still undeniably victorious as he'd stood his ground and refused to give the man even so much as a god damned inch.

He nearly swallowed his own tongue as the man's wrecked face and unfocused eyes slowly panned around to face him. Bloodshot and hazy under a film of cloudy, opaque color that looked more like an oil slick than anything else. So close that he could actually smell the man's rank stench and fetid breath. So close that he could actually see the sudden focus that blossomed in the back of the man's eyes as the jarring movement finally woke him up from whatever trance he'd been caught up in the first place

Because it was Manning - right down to that glinting FEMA badge, unnaturally high cheekbones, and uncompromisingly stiff posture. It was him, every inch of him. Every pound of flesh they hadn't been able to strip away before he'd gotten back up and joined _them._

Before he'd _become_ one of _them…_

_Oh._


End file.
